


First Comes Marriage

by Faylette



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bull is a jerk, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, First Time, Fumbling, Hand Jobs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Masturbation, Or let's not, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, Tent Sex, Too awkward to function, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity, let's talk about sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 67,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faylette/pseuds/Faylette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Trevelyan tries negotiating with nobles while her trusty diplomat is out sick, and accidentally arranges her marriage to a nobleman's son. In a moment of desperation and shortsightedness, she claims to already has a husband: Cullen. It's up to the few who know the truth to sort everything out, but until then, the two are forced to keep up the charade of wedded bliss.</p>
<p>A fill for: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48474273#t48474273</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48474273#t48474273

The Inquisitor paced in front of her throne, speaking to herself, repeating her practiced words over and over again. She stared off into the distance, at no particular sight, nodding her head to the rhythm she had established for her welcoming line. The words felt odd on her tongue, as should be expected when they were practically the only words she knew in Antivan. She had thought to model Josephine’s habit of respectfully greeting another in their native tongue, but suddenly feared that she would garble her greeting to the degree that hospitality would turn to grievous insult. While repeating the once more, a great regret swelled within Evelyn Trevelyan for trying to fill the role of the Inquisition’s much more able diplomat, unfortunately indisposed.

She cursed the spoiled supper that had roiled the insides of so many in her keep, the Lady Montilyet included, and cursed herself for insisting to take on her responsibilities for the day.

Before she could continue damning her shortsightedness, a flock of people, flanked by a retinue of personal guards,  entered the hall, escorted in by Commander Cullen, the only of her advisors not stricken by food poisoning. Even from afar she could see an abundance of finery, of exquisite clothes and jewels and the shimmer of precious metals, which explained the similar abundance of bodyguards; no group of nobles so obscenely adorned would be able to get here all the way from Antiva without several glinting swords to ward away highwaymen. Just at Cullen’s side walked the presumed head and elder of the nobles, as he was dressed even more lavishly than all the others behind him and was gray-haired, both atop his head and on his chin. Evelyn stood tall, hands together in her lap, awaiting their approach while still reciting the words in her mind. At last, Cullen reached the throne, standing beside the Inquisitor, who noted the slightest note of sourness in his otherwise handsome face, presumably for having to have dealt with so many nobles at once.

“Esteemed guests, I present the leader of the Inquisition, Lady Evelyn Lisbeth Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Cullen’s voice carried throughout the hall. The group as a whole bowed down their heads or curtseyed to her, but when the elder at the forefront genuflected reverently upon one knee, the others followed suit immediately, remaining there for as long as he did.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen continued, “I present to you Ser Fermin Ibarra of Antiva City, eighth in line to the Antivan throne and head of the Royal Antivan Trading Company.” He looked relieved to no longer have to talk about him.

Fermin rose with the end of his introduction and closed the distance between himself and Evelyn. The two exchanged a bow and then Evelyn, clearing her throat and facing her audience, said, “Os doy la bienvenida a Skyhold, invitados estimados.”

Her tongue tripped over the rhyming syllables at the end, but she managed not to cringe at her own mistake. Ser Fermin’s face wrinkled from his smiling. “Ah, ¿habláis vos nuestra lengua?”

She stared at him, tight-lipped and silent, until he laughed, not in derision, but more so in amusement. “My lady herald,” he said, strongly accented, “I speak for the whole House of Ibarra when I say that I am honoured to be in the presence of one so illustrious.”

He took her hand, lightly kissing it. “No, Ser Fermin,” said Evelyn, “the honour is mine entirely.”

“Please allow me to introduce my son, my lady.” He motioned at a young man directly behind him, who stepped forward. Evelyn shared a courteous bow with the man, who had his father’s swarthy skin and dark brown eyes, although still retained the blackness of his hair. Fermin pat the youth on his back. “Anton, my firstborn and apprentice.”

“My lady,” he said simply, meeting her eyes briefly.

“It is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to Skyhold,” she parroted one of the phrases Josephine often used with their guests. “Shall we sit down for lunch? Your journey must have been demanding.”

“A meal would be most welcome but, unfortunately, I have come for matters of business, no? Shall we not dispense with dull negotiations and leave the remainder of our stay for matters of pleasure?”

Good, she was eager to get this over with. “As you wish. Please,” she said, stepping forward and gesturing for Fermin to follow her. Cullen remained at her side, as did Anton at Fermin’s.

“¿Cómo te parece?” asked Fermin.

“Es bastante linda, para una sureña, supongo. Pero no es mi tipo.”

“No importa eso — esto es para la bien de la familia.”

Anton sighed.

Evelyn threw a sideway glance at her Commander, prompting a subtle shrug of his shoulders in response. His guess was as good as hers.

She led them into Josephine’s office, which felt like the most suitable place for diplomacy, even with her absence. She took the diplomat’s seat, with Cullen at her side on his feet, while her Antivan guests occupied the seats across from her. Fermin turned to his son, who seemed to interpret the gesture well enough; from a pack at his hip, he removed a set of papers, held together by one metal ring at its top-left corner, and placed it on the table, in front of Evelyn.

“We have already outlined the nature of our arrangement in this contract,” said Fermin. “If you should sign it, the Inquisition will gain exclusive access to some of Antiva’s most fruitful trade opportunities, as well as the personal support of House Ibarra and our vassals, as agreed upon”

“You are too generous, Ser,” said Evelyn, eyes scanning over the first page, which seemed rather straightforward for a legal document, if a bit long-winded.

“Yes, well, there is a matter we must discuss before this alliance can unfold, if I may speak freely.”

“Of course.” She took her gaze away from the contract to give her full attention to Fermin.

“The Royal Antivan Trading Company is strong because it is united under the Ibarra name. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and any ideas you have regarding the Antivan royal family and treachery are fair enough.” He took his eye contact away from her for a moment, as if in shame. “But House Ibarra is not than a collection of people stabbing in the dark for a chance at prosperity; we are a family, fathers and sons, husbands and wives, sharing a greater prosperity than we could attain alone.”

“I have no doubts of your family’s honour. The Inquisition would not forge an alliance with anyone that did not warrant our trust,” Evelyn responded, feeling that the sudden silence demanded some kind of response, although she was not quite sure what kind of reaction Fermin wanted out of her.

“Thank you. You lend much confidence to this arrangement.” He paused, apparently thinking over his words. “I hope you understand then that, for the sake of this alliance, you must be considered one of our family.” He rested his hand on Anton’s shoulder. “Anything less threatens the strength of this enterprise.”

She had heard others refer to their businesses as families, but never before with such ardor. She felt it best to play into the hand he dealt her. “I understand completely, and I for one desire a long-lasting union with House Ibarra.”

The old man’s eyes practically twinkled at her declaration. “It pleases me greatly to hear that, Inquisitor.”

She returned to reading over the contract, with Cullen leaning over to do the same. The words served to reinforce the terms laid out in exchanges of letters from the past few months, and neither could find any divergence from the mutually beneficial arrangement that had been planned out by Josephine earlier.

“No tengo que quedarme en este infierno helado, ¿verdad?” Anton asked his father, his brow scrunched in displeasure.

He laughed beneath his breath. “Por supuesto no. Volveremos a Antiva con tu esposa tan pronto como ella pueda salir.”

A word caught Evelyn’s ear, but it was all but gibberish to her, and meant nothing. She ignored the sensation that something was off, picked up a nearby quill from its inkpot, and signed her name at the bottom of the final page. She offered the pen to Cullen, whose fingers brushed against hers as he took it from her and did the same. She caught herself blushing, and then her cheeks reddened even more for having blushed at such a simple touch.

“How fitting,” Fermin commented. “A blushing bride.”

“Excuse me?” Evelyn and Cullen said in tandem.

“That is the expression in these parts, is it not?” He shook his head. “It is no matter. We will see to the wedding arrangements right away. Anton.”

In what felt like a split second, the Antivan noble’s son was at her side, down on one knee, and for once she wished for the discomfort of someone worshipping her instead of the actual event taking place. Between his fingers he presented a ring with an absurdly large, glittering diamond on it.

A lump formed in the Inquisitor’s throat, and her eyes opened wide. She realized right then that his family business wasn’t just a playful metaphor — it was literally a family business, and she had just made herself one of its employees. She covered her open mouth with her hands, at a loss for words.

“What exactly is going on?” Cullen posed the question to Fermin, who was smiling with all the joy of a proud father.

“An alliance through marriage, Commander,” he explained. “Surely the concept is not foreign to Fereldans.”

“Well, no, but... “

Evelyn took her eyes away from the ring to address the man she had unwittingly made her future father-in-law. “Ser Fermin,” she started, softly, still regaining her voice, “I am very sorry. There has been a misunderstanding. I did not realize that you wanted me to… to marry your son.”

Anton, still bent on one knee, shot a perplexed look at this father. Fermin shot a similar look back at the woman who seemed to be wavering between being his daughter-in-law or not. “And yet you agreed to do so, quite enthusiastically, in fact.”

“I apologize profusely, I really, really do,” her voice trembled, overwhelmed by a fear that she had utterly, and in such a short amount of time, destroyed one of the Inquisition’s best opportunities.

Fermin took a breath and nodded his head. “You have my apologies, Inquisitor. I fear I must not have made myself quite clear.”

She sighed in relief. The relief was short-lived.

“But now that you understand the conditions of our arrangement, surely you would still accept?”

The panic she felt at that moment came close to what she felt when she woke up in those chains, with swords pointed at her head and green light burning through the skin of her hand. She reacted much in the same way — without the capacity to think.

“I can’t, Ser. I’ve already wed another.” With these words, in a kind of impulsive motion, she grabbed Cullen’s nearby arm, startling him.

“Inquisitor?” said Cullen, slowly.

She turned her head up towards at the Commander, into his wide-eyed and confused stare.

“Isn’t that right, my dear husband?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments and the kudos. They gave me warm and fuzzy feelings inside. :)
> 
> And feel free to offer any advice or criticism that you feel would help me improve. It would be very much appreciated.

Cullen would never admit to anyone that that was not the first time he had dreamt about the Inquisitor. The first one occurred not very long after they had settled in at Haven, during the night following an extended meeting at the war table. He woke up confused, with mixed feelings and a fair degree of guilt for what had transpired at the subconscious prompting of his mind, and had difficulty looking straight at Evelyn’s face or at the war table later that day. He felt that this dream would not cause the same effect, certainly not to the same degree, but it was just so bizarre — and the Antivan nobles speaking gibberish was a weird touch.

“This man,” said the older Antivan, pausing to gesture at Cullen, “is your husband?”

The Inquisitor nodded, her head moving so rapidly that her red hair whipped along with the motion. Anton got up off of his one knee and returned to his seat without saying a word, and on his face was an expression that lingered somewhere between humiliation and bafflement.

“I am confused,” he continued, inadvertently speaking for everyone present. “One would think that news of the Herald of Andraste's marriage would have spread across Thedas. How have I not received word of this?”

“I’m sure there are more important matters to concern oneself with.” The narrowing of Fermin’s eyes suggested the opposite. “A-And it was fairly recent anyway. A week ago, in fact!”

“¿Qué demonios es esto?” Anton interjected, incredulous.

Fermin shushed his son for his remarks before saying, “I presume that I should be offering my congratulations, then. My apologies, your family name escapes me.”

“Rutherford.”

“The name sounds familiar. Does your family preside over the South Reach?”

“My family presides over a mill in Honnleath.”

Fermin’s dark skin took on a paler tone at his answer. “I… see. That is good, honest work, I suppose.”

Cullen didn’t reply, effectively ending the conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange could have been called. Evelyn took the opportunity to clear her throat and get up to her feet. “I apologize, Sers, but I must take my leave. My husband” — the word jolted through him in a way that should have woken him up, but did not — “has not been feeling well as of late. Half of the keep has food poisoning, did you know?” She began to shuffle out of the room, dragging the Commander along with her. “Do go ahead and enjoy lunch, though.”

And with a closed door, they left the setting of possibly the worst attempt at negotiation that had ever happened in the sight of the Maker. Cullen followed the Inquisitor to the council room, and got sight of the war table; perhaps this would be a dream to be ashamed of after all. She stood in front of him, eyes set to the floor, hands clasped together as if in pleading.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I-I was freaking out and — Maker, I’m an idiot.“

The words kept spilling out, all of these apologies, in a frenzy, each chipping away at every semblance of composure that the Inquisitor usually possessed in his presence. He had never seen in such a panic, nor in such a tirade of self-deprecation; she even almost seemed on the verge of tears. It stung him to see her in such a manner, and he needed to do something to assuage her, and although he did not know how, he took a chance on a gut feeling.

He took her against his chest, wrapping her in his arms, holding her close. A small gasp escaped her before she fell silent, standing still in his embrace. His hand pressed firmly against her back, feeling the cotton of her tunic, and the wrinkles of whatever fabric lay beneath. But something about the texture of her clothes, about the heat that he felt even through all his layers, about her unsteady breath against his neck — all these miniscule details, so easy to perceive — gave him pause. It became apparent why, despite everything else, his dream lacked its usual haziness and vagueness.

Maker’s Breath, this is real.

Cullen pulled himself away, untangling his arms from each other and taking his hands back to himself. Evelyn was red-faced and stunned, momentarily trapped in the pose that he had molded her into.

“Th-that… that was completely inappropriate, Inquisitor. I should not have...” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “It won’t happen again.”

“I didn’t really mind,” she mumbled, looking away and shifting some of her hair back behind her ear.

“What was that?”

She shook her head, forgoing a vocal response.

“Right, well, let me see if I have this straight. You agreed to marry the son of an Antivan noble—“

“By accident!” she interrupted, absolutely, undeniably insistent.

“By accident,” he echoed to appease her, “and now they think that I’m your husband.” The word felt odd, foreign; despite nothing ever having forbidden him from taking on the title, he had felt as if he had forsworn it long ago.

“That about sums it up.”

“What now, then?”asked Cullen.

“Well, I would imagine that going back to the head of the most influential economic force in Antiva and saying ‘haha, just kidding’ would end poorly.” A look of regret, even more severe than before, bent her brow and her lips. “That… sounded even worse out loud than it did in my head.” She clutched at the collar of her shirt, as if it was strangling her. “Oh, Maker, when they find out…”

He thought for a moment, considering what felt like the only option. “And if they don’t?”

Her tight grip relaxed slightly, but she did not let go. “What do you mean?”

“We pretend to be married.”

Evelyn’s eyebrows rose in some mixture of intrigue and surprise. “You would do that?”

“In the interests of the Inquisition, yes.”

And for you. But he did not lend his voice to those words.

Her face softened, producing the slightest of smiles. “I’ve gotten you into a terrible mess, haven’t I?”

“I’ve endured graver predicaments.”

Their glances met, brown eyes into green, in an unspoken agreement: a sign of commitment to an absurd plan, a hint of assured order in a torrent of chaos. It was if there was a chance that everything would work itself out, however incredibly, extraordinarily unlikely.

“So where does this leave us?” she asked. “Do we follow them around and sigh at each other longingly?”

“Perhaps… I propose that, for the moment, we stay out of sight, keep to our duties, and reconvene with the council, as soon as they are able to, to agree upon a strategy.”

Evelyn pressed her fingertips to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You sound like you’re planning for a battle.”

She wasn’t wrong, he would admit. Perhaps it was the only way that he could visualize the dilemma and find some way to tackle it. They were two units on a poorly-scouted field, without armour, without provisions, holding their swords by the blade, charging right in.

“Very well, I’ll be sure to devote extra energy to avoiding the probably disgruntled Antivan nobles.” She smiled a smile that Cullen could not decipher, if it had any meaning to begin with, anyhow. As she stepped past him to take her leave, he fell at the mercy of the curiosity that the sweetness of that look stirred within him.

“Inquisitor,” he called out, halting her departure. He hesitated.

“What is it?”

“Why did you pick me?”

She tilted her head somewhat. “What?”

“Was there a reason you said it was me?” His voice was clear and strong, despite his throat going dry. “Instead of someone else, I mean.”

She shrugged. “You were beside me, so I thought of you first.”

It made sense, he supposed, though the answer had placed weight on his shoulders much heavier than he would have expected.

“I see.”

Evelyn looked at him for an instant longer, and then left. Well after she was gone, Cullen followed suit. He passed through Josephine’s office, thankfully deserted, and entered the main hall, where he lacked the same luxury. Despite the call to the banquet that had been prepared for the Inquisition’s guests, many of House Ibarra remained strewn about the place that he had escorted them to. He kept his head raised high and marched steadily down the hall, keeping his eyes focused on the exit. Chatter surrounded him, and although he could not understand a word of it, he knew that it was about him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an extravagantly clad young woman lean over to her friend or sister or lady-in-waiting — whoever it was — and whisper something while keeping her eyes on Cullen. The other woman gasped and playfully smacked the whisperer’s arm.

“Graciela!” she cried out in protest, causing them both to erupt in giggles.

She either fancied him or was mocking him, possibly both. Nonetheless, he remained stoic as he continued forward. Afterwards, he made his way to his tower without incident, breathing significantly more freely away from their scrutiny. The remainder of his day proceeded in a manner far more typical than what he would have expected, given what had transpired in its earlier hours. He received reports, signed off on orders, responded to requests and complaints, and discussed logistics and fortifications with his subordinates, as usual. The only difference he could discern was the slight caution that his soldiers displayed in their interactions with him, as if they had something to say, but feared such thoughts slipping out. It was evident to Cullen that the news had reached the barracks, the only place that could challenge an Orlesian ball in its ability to spread gossip. He focused on his work, giving them no fodder, took his supper at his desk, and eventually retreated to his loft to sleep.

He awoke at daybreak and, attempting to maintain the normalcy of another day, briskly prepared himself to return to his duties. Before long, he was back in front of his desk, yawning every so often, and mulling over the scout’s maps that had been brought to him by a young recruit who was obviously dying to get more information out of him, even though she did not say a word directly about the matter. He was in the middle of envisioning troop placement between the hills and forests of the drawing’s landscape, when someone suddenly barged through his door so forcefully that it seemed like it should have been torn clean off of its hinges, causing Cullen’s hand to go straight for his sword. He desisted immediately when he realized who was in front of him.

“Explain this,” Cassandra snapped, scowling, “now.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does much happen here? No, I suppose not. Hopefully that will change.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Your kindness overwhelms me and makes me make dopey smiles. :)

“Explain what?”

Clearly, that was the wrong response. Cassandra lunged forward and slammed her palms down on Cullen’s desk. “You and the Inquisitor! What is going on?”

His eyes shot towards the door, which Cassandra left wide open, and the patrols that seemed to be congregating and pacing outside his office more than usual — several sets of eyes and ears privy to their conversation, and many more to the Seeker’s half.

“Could you calm down first?”

“What reason do I have to be calm?” she replied, at an even greater volume. “On my way here, a dozen jabbering Antivan nobles tried to speak with me. One felt ‘personally aggrieved’ by the Inquisition for not being invited to the Herald of Andraste’s wedding. Another demanded to know why the Inquisitor would deign herself to marry a commoner who had not even provided her with a ring. A particularly aggravating woman asked if I was even certain that the marriage had been,” she paused to groan, “consummated.”

“Andraste’s mercy” was all Cullen could manage to pronounce, obscuring his eyes with one hand.

“And I had no answers for these absurd questions. So, provide them for me.”

Cullen, aware that anything his unwanted audience heard would spread through the entirely of Skyhold like wildfire, along with anything they did not hear. Against his wishes, in front of an incredibly strong woman who had no idea what he was actually doing and who looked like she was about to punch him in the face, he knew that he had to put the plan in motion at once.

“She is my wife,” he announced, raising his voice to be heard. “What more needs to be answered?”

Cassandra balked at him. “Have you gone mad? That answers nothing!”

He held up his hands, palms open and facing her, as if to show that he was no threat and needn’t be threatened to comply. “I will gladly speak of this more. In the council room, with the others, and the Inquisitor.”

Her brow bore down hard over her enraged eyes. “Why?”

“Just trust me. We’ll explain everything.”

Cassandra’s silent stare bored into him for an indeterminate amount of time, before she finally relented. “You had better.”

 

For Evelyn, nothing shook off the sleep like the cold, mountain air of morning. Dressed only in her nightgown and a robe, the air never took long to freeze her to the bones, so she never spent much time on her balcony, gazing out into the distance, at the endless white — a few minutes at most before she was wide awake. She couldn’t quite explain it, but when her skin was covered in goosebumps and her teeth began to chatter, everything felt real. The ritual, as she had come to mentally refer to it, took place so early in the day and so swiftly that it practically lacked the chance to be interrupted. Hence, the Inquisitor was caught well off-guard when she heard a door open behind her. She wrapped her robe tightly over her body and headed back inside to attend to her unexpected visitor.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Your Worship,” a woman’s voice called out before its owner, one of the servants, had appeared from the stairs. “Lady Cassandra has requested your presence at the war table.”

Evelyn raised a brow. “So early? Is something the matter?”

“I apologize, she did not say more,” she bashfully replied. “Only to come right away.”

She thanked the woman before she took her leave, and took Cassandra’s order to heart as soon as she had regained her privacy. She speedily slipped into a set of suitable clothes and brushed her hair only until it mostly demonstrated that she had not just hopped out of bed, and then hustled down the stairway to the main hall. Besides the usual guards posted about the place, the banquet tables seated many of the visiting Antivan nobles, almost as if they barely left the spots that she last saw them occupying. A number of servants scurried from table to table, trying to placate the numerous demands that she could make out between all the chatter.

“Where is the coffee?” a middle-aged man questioned after gaining the attention of one of the bustling servants.

“I am sorry, Ser, I don’t understand what you’re asking for..”

“Bah,” he scoffed. “Fereldans. Get some from our personal stock immediately, then.”

With sympathy, she ducked out of the hall and sped towards the council room, hoping that her simple clothes had let her evade their attention. Upon entering, all of the room’s occupants turned their heads to face her. Leliana and Josephine, while looking significantly better than the last time she saw them, still looked like they would be better off resting in bed. Evelyn could tell that Josephine, in particular, was in no mood for a council meeting, given her unusually plain outfit, unstyled hair, and empty hands, free of both her writing board and quill. Cassandra stood dead center in front of the table, with arms crossed and a severe expression across her face. Behind her, atop the map, laid what could have only been the Antivan contract. Finally, Cullen stood at the back of the room, leaning against the far wall. She didn’t know quite know why, but something about his anxious appearance gave her the distinct impression of a misbehaving child who had just gotten yelled at by his mother.

“There you are,” said Cassandra, her voice as piercing as her look, which she then shifted to Cullen. “You can begin demystifying the situation, then.”

“Wait,” Evelyn interjected. “Let me explain, it was entirely my fault.”

“No,” said Cullen, stepping forward to join the group. “Our plan was my idea, Inquisitor.”

“That’s ridiculous — you wouldn’t have even had to suggest the idea if I hadn’t—”

“Enough!” Cassandra shouted, using her hands to signal for order. “Would someone please get to the point already?”

The Inquisitor and the Commander shared a wordless look, and then started telling the story from its start. They took turns speaking, leaping off of each other’s words to capture the event in its entirety: the misunderstandings, the panic, the hastily-executed idea.

“Oh, Maker,” Josephine bemoaned, wringing her hands together. “I knew I should have attended the negotiations. Fermin is notorious for thinking he’s actually getting his muddled points across. I’m still unsure if he does it on purpose or not.”

“I doubt that getting sick all over the Antivans’ shoes would have been a sound diplomatic strategy, Josie,” said Leliana, who did not share her friend’s physical manifestations of anxiety, but looked concerned nonetheless.

“It would have at least be on par with what actually came out of my mouth.” Evelyn sighed, ashamed.

“So this is all a lie? An act?” said Cassandra. “Then all we need to do is meet with the Antivans again and straighten this out.”

“I would advise against that,” Josephine cut in. “Should they find out that this is a sham, the consequences could be disastrous. While it is true that the contract contains no explicit conditions about a marriage alliance, if Ser Fermin realizes that the Inquisitor lied to avoid marrying his son, he has power enough to instigate a trade war between Antiva and the Inquisition. Furthermore—“

“There’s more?” Evelyn interrupted, her disbelief that she could say anything worse trumping her etiquette.

“As I was saying, save for the most fervent of House Ibarra’s rivals, fewer nobles — Antivan or otherwise — may be willing to forge alliances and trade agreements with someone who spurned one of their rank so openly.”

Cassandra responded through gritted teeth. “Just what are you saying?”

Josephine looked ashamed to even be considering the words that were about to leave her mouth. “In the absence of another option, I… think I agree with their plan.”

She locked her desperate eyes with those of the Spymaster. “Leliana?”

“I’m afraid I agree too.”

Cassandra threw up her hands, accepting her capitulation, though not willingly. “Fantastic. I’m sure the Inquisition will benefit tremendously from the frivolous gossip that pampered Orlesian ladies will spin out of this.”

“I wouldn’t discount those Orlesian ladies to quickly, Cassandra,” said Leliana. “Few things can grab a court’s attention like an influential person’s wedding.” When Cassandra seemed loath to acknowledge her point, Leliana turned her attention to Cullen and Evelyn, who were still on opposite sides of the table. “So, what is your plan, exactly?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “To… look married?”

“Yes, and how?”

The supposed couple looked at each other and muttered half-sentences and sundry words, trying to pry answers that did not readily exist in either of their minds.

“So you both have given this literally no thought at all,” said Josephine, with a tinge of disappointment.

“We were actually hoping that you’d all have some ideas,” said Evelyn. She bit her lip, trying not to cringe any more noticeably.

“Then have it look,” Cass faltered, apparently trying to find the right words, “business-like. Arranged. Then we can continue everything as normal.”

Leliana shook her head, promptly dashing her colleague’s plan against the floor. “No, I’m certain it’s too late to try and spin this from that angle. Eloping in complete secrecy is not what happens in a negotiated marriage — it’s an act of passion.”

Evelyn held her head in her hands and spoke through her fingers, which she had to restrain from clawing into her face for her own idiocy. “Then what you’re saying is... “

“You have to appear as lovers, so blinded by your unbridled passion for each other that you could no longer delay your marriage.”

The redness of Cullen’s cheeks stood in bold contrast against the otherwise ghostly white that his face had adopted. He swallowed audibly. “I’m… sure that can be done.” He turned to Evelyn. “Right?”

She nodded, which she unconsciously cancelled out by a shrug of her shoulders and a turn of her head that rendered the Commander completely outside of her field of view.

“Convincing,” said Cassandra, her sole response to their display.

Josephine rubbed her forehead, no longer able to ignore the headache that this meeting had lodged there. “It may not be necessary to overtly profess your affection to the masses. Many couples reserve their… sentiments for each other in private places, which leads me to my next point, actually. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that you both retired to  separate quarters last night, and that seems to be the point that is already making people have questions.”

“Is that so odd?” Cullen asked, unsure, and slow on the uptake. “We do  have separate quarters.”

“For newlyweds with the Maker’s blessing? Yes, it’s extremely odd.”

“What do you—“ he ended his thinking aloud when he grasped the answer himself. “Oh, r-right, the… right.”

Saying that Evelyn was embarrassed was a grave understatement. Her hands gripped her crossed arms so tightly that he fingernails pressed into the fabric, clawing into the skin beneath. Despite the usual draft in the room, she was warm, and uncomfortably so. She should have realized sooner that her not-so-little lie would unquestionably imply that she was sleeping with Cullen, in the not-so-literal sense — and the part that really made her run the risk of breaking her skin with her restless clutch was that she had to make certain that nobody thought otherwise. Despite her unwillingness to do so, the desperation that arose from that knowledge made her speak.

“How do we convince everyone, then?” she asked, causing a heavy silence to fall upon the room.

And then subtle smile crossed Leliana’s mouth. “Congratulations, Commander. I believe you’ve just been reassigned to most luxurious quarters in all of Skyhold.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that started as an interlude between the last chapter and what I actually meant to write about ended up a tad longer than I intended to, so... why not?

It was not long before Cassandra called an end to their meeting, bringing everyone’s focus back to the Inquisition’s duties. Scouts had returned that morning with recent sightings of a rift just off the road towards Redcliffe, all but halting passage through the area. Cassandra insisted upon giving this matter immediate attention, and the council of advisors likewise agreed. They all departed, either to make preparations or return to their own obligations, and they were all eager to leave that room and its business behind, at least for some time.

Cullen tried to shrug off the daze, an all too uncommon state to be in in these last two days, and focus on the task at hand. He headed to the barracks, assigned squads as he thought necessary to provide support for the Inquisitor’s central force. Based on the reports, he determined that anything more than a small contingent would slow the party down. He relayed the remainder of his orders for preparation to his squad leaders, and left with the intent of returning to his office and the work that awaited him there. But as he neared his door,  something stopped him, kept him from enclosing himself in his duties right away. Against his better judgement, he indulged his whims, descended down the battlement steps, and stood attentively at Skyhold’s gate.

Before the guilt for slacking off from his work could haul him back to his desk, she emerged from the stone steps, glimmering in the sunlight. Cassandra, Varric and Solas all walked alongside her, but Evelyn was the only one his eyes were drawn to. She was covered from her neck to her feet in her gilded steel plate, intricately emblazoned with the emblem of the Inquisition across her breastplate, making her attire as much a symbol as it was a means of protection. As usual, she had foregone the flowing, red “skirt” that embellished the ensemble — something that bestowed upon her an air of grandeur and femininity for ceremonial purposes, but was otherwise utterly useless and even precarious against a rampaging demon. With her long hair tightly braided back and her helmet under her arm, she walked with complete ease, even underneath the considerable weight of a full set of armour. The sight reminded Cullen that, despite her noble lady’s education, Evelyn Trevelyan was a force to be reckoned with on the field of battle. She looked like a figure out of myth, a champion from a time of legends — and given her place in the world as it stood now, he supposed that his judgment wasn’t unwarranted.

Cassandra was speaking to her, and effectively keeping her attention. Thus, Evelyn didn’t notice who was waiting for her until she was just in front of him. “Cullen?” she said, taken aback. “What are you doing here?”

It suddenly dawned upon him that he didn’t have an answer to that. He unconsciously rubbed the side of his neck as he tried to stumble his way through an answer. “I, uh, thought I should see you off, is all.”

She tilted her head, tilting her braid along with it. “Really? You’ve never done that before.”

“I’ve… not had my wife go out to battle before now.” Those words felt oddly natural to say. Perhaps playing the ever-concerned husband took the smallest stretch of imagination.

Cassandra sighed, obviously disgruntled for having to be reminded of this farce, and walked past them. “Do not keep the Inquisitor, Commander.” Varric trailed behind the Seeker, though he looked back in interest at what was unfolding before him. Solas simply passed by, indifferent.

Evelyn laughed beneath her breath. Whether it was in discomfort or amusement, Cullen couldn’t say. “It’s just a rift, I’ve already done this plenty of times. We’ll be back before sundown.”

He nodded, well aware of her capabilities, but concerned nonetheless. “Until tonight, then.”

She nodded back, slowly. “Until tonight.”

Just when Cullen thought he was free of his whims, he was inexorably called, as if possessed, to another action he couldn’t quite explain. Before Evelyn could turn to depart, he took ahold of her hand, lifting it up to his lips. Before they met, he tarried, in an instant becoming aware of the cold gauntlet that hid away every inch of her hand. He stood there, stunned for what he later prayed was only a passing moment, and locked eyes with a woman just as able as he was to know how to proceed. He acted nonetheless, and kissed her cheek, lingering no longer than he had to, and much less than he wanted to.

“Inquisitor,” he stated simply to signal his departure, returning her hand to her possession.

“Commander,” she replied, putting her helmet over her head and obscuring her flushed face in the process.

They then parted ways to do what was demanded of them — things that would keep the mind occupied and sane, if but for a time.

 

Evelyn’s focus was unshaken during the whole of the day’s mission. The group’s mounts brought them within in their destination in good time, at which point they relinquished their care to the soldiers maintaining the nearby encampment. With the unmistakable green glow of a rift in the distance, the Inquisitor led them further on foot, until they reached a hill within range of their objective, where demons wandered aimlessly, not straying far from the tear’s central point. She surveyed the site and dealt orders, and everyone took their positions, awaiting her signal.

She made eye contact with Solas, some distance away from her, and made a gesture with her hand. This prompted the mage to kneel down and touch his hand to the ground, as the other held his staff aloft. Within an instant, luminous smoke, engendered from the Fade, skimmed through the soil in a straight line, kicking up the dirt and rock in its relentless path until it focused itself beneath the rift, pulling the demons all together in its center, smashing them against each other. Without hesitation, Evelyn removed a glass sphere of Antivan fire from her belt and hurled it at the throng, setting them all afire. The otherworldly beasts that did not quickly succumb to the flames were in a panicked rage, and charged at the group that threatened them. The Inquisitor unsheathed her sword and, along with Cassandra, ran into the fray, keeping the attention away from their less-armoured companions. Honed silverite rent supernatural flesh as crossbow bolts whizzed through the air and a shield smashed creatures to the ground and the energies of the Fade became tangible weapons of destruction. At last, Evelyn’s hand seared as it connected with the Veil, sewing it together for once and for all. She removed her helmet and took a well-earned moment to catch her breath. It was not a particularly challenging fight, but she was relieved to have it over with, nonetheless.

And then, with her focus momentarily suspended, she recalled what had happened at Skyhold’s gate. She touched her fingertips to her cheekbone, experiencing at once all of the thoughts that she had bottled up for the sake of concentrating on her duty, and remained still as they washed over her.

Varric approached her, seeing no further need to occupy his position from the fight. “You get yourself hurt, Freckles?”

“Hmm?” Evelyn shook her head, shaking off her thoughts in the process. “No, I was just… lost in thought for a moment, there.”

“Good to hear. I wouldn’t want to find out what would happen if I didn’t bring you back to Curly in one piece.”

“Let’s go,” Cassandra snapped, heading back in the direction of their encampment without waiting for anyone else to follow.

Everyone caught up quickly enough, although Evelyn failed to regain her focus by any measure, even along the much slower ride back to Skyhold. Just recalling what happened made her face burn so hot she was surprised that she wasn’t lighting their way back with the glow. Even she could recognize the absurdity of her reaction, given that an endless number of parties and soirees had demanded that she offer her cheek to her family’s guests — though as much as she tried to convince herself it was no different, her attempts at persuasion led nowhere. She then tried to brush it off with humour, telling herself _What would everyone think if the Herald of Andraste was acting like a giddy little girl getting a peck on the cheek from the cutest boy in the village?_ The way her mind phrased the idea foiled her attempt to laugh it off. She couldn’t wait to get back to Skyhold and hide herself under her blankets, all alone in her quarters for no one to see—

“Oh, damn it all.”


	5. Chapter 5

Well after sundown, Cullen was immersed in field reports, combing through the words for the most relevant details to bring to the next war table meeting. As usual, people had been filing in and out of his office from morning to night, making this the first moment he had had to himself since Cassandra barged her way into his office that morning. He felt oddly weary for really having done so little in one day, so the solitude was more than welcome. The sound of his door creaking accented just how short-lived that solitude was, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide his annoyance.

“What is it now?”

“Is this a bad time?” asked Evelyn, her form neither completely inside or outside the room.

He stood up at once, bolting out of his chair in one rapid motion. “Inquisitor, I didn’t mean to — I didn’t think,” he sighed in admittance of his error. “Sorry. Please, come in.”

She did, lightly pressing the door behind her. She must have returned to Skyhold some time ago, given that she had had time to change into one her usual, more casual outfits. Her hair remained pulled back into a braid, though it had come somewhat loose over the course of the day.

“Everything went well, I presume?”

“Went off without a hitch.”

“I wouldn’t expect less from you,” he said, almost proudly, and cleared his throat. “Was there something I could do for you?”

“I know it’s not very late, but I’m pretty worn out.” She bit her lip before continuing. “I’d like to go to sleep.”

“You need not let me stop you, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn winced and clutched the wrist of her shirt. “Well, I do, if you recall what Leliana said.”

He did, as much as he had tried to keep his mind off of it, or when that failed, to persuade himself that it would be the same as bunking with his Templar brothers back in his younger days. She had told them to make sure they were noticed leaving for their bedroom together, and to let everyone’s imagination fill in what happened behind closed doors.

“Right. I can come to bed with you now, if you wish.” His eyes widened at the sound of his own voice saying those words. “I mean, I can come to sleep with you. No, wait, not _with_ you, just… _near_ you, I suppose. A-And literally sleeping, of course, not…” He shook his head and groaned, mentally punching himself in the stomach to make himself shut up. “Let’s go, then.”

Hastily setting a weight down upon his papers, as to safeguard them against a mischievous draft, Cullen took his leave with her. When they reached the entrance of the main hall, he noticed at once several nobles, a few Antivans, Orlesians, and a Nevarran or two, in the places they had apparently claimed as their own and and seemed disinclined to relinquish, almost setting themselves up as fixtures in the hall. Thinking upon it, it didn’t matter what kind of noble acted as their audience — high-class gossip was one of the few things that transcended the barriers of nationality.

Evelyn wove her arm with his, linking them together, and took a deep breath. “I think I know what to do. Follow my lead,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, and then stepped forward, raising her voice. “Love, let us retire to our quarters for the night, for I am weary… but not _too_ weary.”

Caught unawares, he failed to respond immediately, prompting the Inquisitor to jab her elbow into his side. Given that he still had his armour on, she then had to try desperately to hide the pain she had just caused for herself. “Of course, uh, wife.” He stumbled through his thoughts, and spoke further, unable to sufficiently cover up the stiff, unnatural tone of his voice. “I’d been hoping you’d say that all day.”

“I’m not sure how I could have said so earlier,” she continued, at the same volume, “what with my being away and all.”

“R-Right,” Cullen bashfully admitted, “then, well, I suppose it’s just been on my mind all day.”

He groaned inwardly at the idea of announcing to a crowd that he was a single-minded lecher, but, at the same time, maybe that was what he was supposed to be trying to get across.

“That is… good to hear,” said Evelyn, her voice trailing off and her facade obviously cracking.

Cullen was on the brink of getting down on his knees and thanking the Maker that they had just reached the end of the hall and could retreat away from their blundering performances. For appearance’s sake in the event of crossing paths with someone else, perhaps, their arms remained interlocked during their trek up the stairs. It wasn’t until they entered the bedroom, with the door sealed behind them, that they separated, purposefully and awkwardly slipping out of each other’s grasp. Cullen was silent as he stepped forward and looked around, taking in his surroundings, taking stock of the place he would spend his nights for the foreseeable future. He had witnessed such finery before in the course of his life, and the room would probably be called quaint by some standards, but he had never called any place like it his own quarters. It almost felt like a bizarre, elaborate joke, and he would have been more suspicious of such if he didn’t know that he was in on it.

Evelyn clapped her hands together, putting an abrupt end to the silence. “So then, these are my quarters. Or our quarters, I suppose.”

He looked over at his new bunkmate, whose stiff posture and downcast eyes made him aware of her discomfort at his presence. He thought it reasonable that she was more uncomfortable than he was, as he assumed, since the situation demanded that he invade her space.

“The Inquisition has certainly spared no expense here,” he commented, trying to bring his focus to the room instead of what was happening in it.

“Josephine insisted on having my chambers nothing but fit for the Herald of Andraste and the leader of the Inquisition.” She raised both her eyes and an eyebrow. “Which makes me wonder if she shows it off to dignitaries while I’m away.”

“You don’t think she really…?”

“No, just a stupid joke,” she stammered, blushing. With a bashful look on her face, she walked past Cullen and sat on the edge of her bed, bending down to untie her boots’ laces.

So, with the only bed hers and only hers, Cullen realized that he had to find somewhere to sleep through the night. He first noticed the two-seat sofa near the stairs, scanned the room once more desperately for a better option, and then conceded, taking a seat on the sofa. It was reasonably comfortable for sitting, as he would have imagined, but he knew without experience but without a doubt that it was ill-suited for sleeping on. With a low grumble, he began to contort himself in every possible position and configuration that he could conceive of, hoping against hope that he would find some way for all his limbs to exist in harmony at the same time. Within a very short amount of time, he admitted to himself that it was impossible; he was simply too tall and his shoulders were too wide to make this into even a mediocre makeshift bed. The fact did not go overlooked.

“You could take the bed,” suggested Evelyn, pulling her second boot off and placing it on the floor with its twin. “I could probably fit there, somehow. Better than you, at least.

“No, this will suffice, I assure you.” He knew full well that there was no way she was dumb enough to fall for his lie, but intruding on her comforts seemed the worse offense.

She gave him a dubious look as she began to untwist her hair.  “Are you sure?”

“I insist, Inquisitor.” He laid on his back, with his neck  pressed up against one armrest and his legs flung over the other, with his arms crossed atop his chest. In all honesty, the floor would have probably been a more comfortable option, a least restrictive one, anyhow, but he felt that he had already stubbornly dug in himself too deep, and thus had to stand his ground.  He shut his eyes. “Well, good night, then.”

“Shouldn’t you at least take off your armour?”

_Oh, Andraste’s tits._

“N-No, I… prefer to sleep this way.” Was it really worth his pride to remain so obstinate in front of her? “Old habit.”

So it seemed.

There was a stillness all about Cullen, and then the sound of blankets shuffling, and her bare footsteps approaching him. A heavy woolen blanket draped over him, hanging over the armrest along with his legs. Of course, he had no need to confirm who had done this for him, but he still opened his eyes, and there stood Evelyn. She fiddled absentmindedly with her flowing hair, left in billowing waves by the previous constriction of her braid.

“It can get pretty cold in the middle of the night,” she explained. “You might need this.”

He smiled, experiencing the first bit of comfort since he had lain down, although the blanket was only part of that feeling. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn returned the smile, if not somewhat more sheepishly, and stood there a while longer. She looked as though she had something more to say, but had trouble finding the words for it. She tried nonetheless. “About earlier…”

He felt a pang in the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. “I apologize, I have no knack for improvising. Maybe we can imply that I had a little too much to drink tonight.”

She shook her head. “N-No, not that, I mean this morning, at the…” Her voice trailed off, slipping into silence. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

Uneasily, she turned away and walked back to her bed, pulling up the layers of blankets — somewhat mussed up by her having removed one — to slip underneath them. Facing away from Cullen, she stirred somewhat, and then neither moved nor made a sound, as if she had instantly fallen asleep.

Whether that was the case or not, Cullen had no such luck himself. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and made one last feeble attempt at squirming into an agreeable position, but to no avail. He breathed in deeply, trying to relax, when something caught his attention. It was not a sound nor a sight, and it was a sensation he had had little contact with, but it was unmistakable. He had recognized it from when he held her in his haziness, from when he had kissed her in his caprice: her scent. There was some part of him that took a sort of delight in it, experiencing something he could only experience in closeness with her, and the realization only added to his guilt and his self-loathing. He tried to ignore it, but it wasn’t as if his nose possessed the discipline to concentrate on something else. In defeat, he let the blanket drop onto the floor, softly and slowly, as to not disturb his bunkmate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the comments and kudos. You're all the best. :)

Cullen woke up in the  morning, not entirely sure if he had gotten any sleep at all. Unfortunately, Evelyn had not lied about the room’s coldness; even with his layers, and the opulence of the room that made him believe that it would be significantly warmer than any other room, he was still smack in the middle of the Frostback Mountains. Without that blanket, he was nearly shivering throughout the night, leaving him in little condition for deep and restful sleep. Also, it didn’t help that he felt like he had spent the night with his body completely cramped inside a barrel — a thought that he let slip to the Inquisitor later in the day, which he quickly denied as a joke.

Meanwhile, Evelyn, despite having the advantage of comparatively elegant comforts, fared only somewhat better. She was warm and snug in her bed, but was unable to coax her mind to silence. There were no exact words for her to put the feeling in, but his presence unsettled her. No, that seemed too harsh on him. Maybe flustered was more precise. Again, she was the giddy little girl and, again, that image unhinged what she perceived herself to be — what she thought others ought to see. A heap of cognitive dissonance made for a poor night’s sleep.

The two new bunkmates both had expected, and fiercely hoped, that they would just get used to the arrangement, much like one becomes accustomed to newly cobbled shoes, or the weight of an untested blade. On the contrary, each night only increased the discomfort, whether physical or mental, and offered no more rest to them than had the first night. It did not take long for the effects of sleep deprivation to rob both of them of their faculties during the daylight hours. Cullen had been caught several times with his face planted down on his desk, drooling on maps and missives before being startled awake by a visitor. Evelyn managed to doze off on her feet while during a talk with an Antivan dowager, who spoke so proudly and incessantly about her estates and holdings that she didn’t seem to notice the Inquisitor’s lack of consciousness. In any case, the little slivers of sleep that they had managed to steal away couldn’t make up for the sleepless nights, and it showed.

“It may not be what we were going for, but you two do an exceptional impression of new parents,” Leliana commented, as the alleged couple slumped against the war table.

“I have no idea what you’re saying about,” Cullen muttered, cracking his neck to stiff one side. Evelyn mumbled something unintelligible and yawned.

“This is absurd.” Cassandra’s cutting voice brought the two to some semblance of attention. Although she had left most of the council matters up to the Inquisitor and her advisors, she had taken it upon herself to attend any discussion about the Inquisition’s delicate hoax, especially since she was one of only five who knew the truth. “This is affecting your duties. If this little game is doing more harm than good for the Inquisition, then end it. Immediately.”

“There’s no cause for alarm, Cassandra,” Evelyn insisted. “We’ll sort all of this out right away.”

“In other matters,” said Josephine, “Ser Fermin’s daughter, Graciela, has repeatedly insisted upon a private audience with the Herald of Andraste and her husband, over coffee and pastries. I have tried to convince her that you’re both too busy to accept, but I fear that further refusal would be taken as an insult against House Ibarra.”

“Cof...fee?” Cullen sounded the word out.

“A bitter brewed drink, currently the latest fad in both Antiva City and Val Royeaux,” she explained. “Personally, I can’t say I understand the appeal, but I think you both could use some.”

“I’ll leave you to your tea party, then,” said Cassandra acerbically, turning around to depart.

“Coffee party,” Leliana corrected, receiving no further response as the door shut, its metal rings jangling against the wood.

“I would discourage you from taking this meeting lightly,” said Josephine. “Fermin’s children are everything to him; making a positive impression on Graciela could… smooth over some rough patches in our alliance. Do anything in your power to keep her happy.”

Much to the Inquisitor’s chagrin, part of this “anything” included dressing the part. She was whisked away, quite reluctantly, to prepare for the afternoon. Cullen had no such preparations to see to, save for putting his pants on the right way, something he had failed to do nor notice having not done in his lethargy until Leliana was kind enough to point it out for him. In any case, despite his firmly-held belief that this was an enormous waste of time, he figured that he could handle it. How hard could it be to eat sweets and nod or maybe laugh politely at everything a noble lady said?

 

Later, when he was called upon, he made his way to the castle’s newly renovated drawing room, a place he had not yet found any reason to visit before. He was almost certain that he had gotten himself completely lost, and was just about ready to retrace his steps back and try again, when he turned one last corner. There stood Josephine, and beside her, Evelyn Trevelyan, though in no manner he had ever seen her before. Her hair was pulled into a braid, although it was one that lacked all her usual practicality: too voluminous, too many loose curls, a delicate ribbon instead of a reliable cord. He essentially lacked the skill to describe her dress, save to say that it was a concoction of some sort of pastel blue fabric, with glossy bunches of white — was that satin, maybe? — and an embroidered corset sewn right into the outfit, grasping her torso firmly. Beneath the billows of her skirts peeked out the points and narrow heels of her shoes. When Cullen’s eyes returned to her face, she noticed him, and sighed in relief.

“Good, I almost thought I’d have to do this alone.”

“Inquisitor, you look…” What is the word, within the confines of language, that perfectly expresses what he saw before his eyes? Beautiful? Radiant? Breath-taking?

“I look…?” she mirrored his words, prompting him to finish.

“Uncomfortable.”

That probably wasn’t the right one. Josephine looked like she was using every ounce of her willpower not to roll her eyes at his gaffe.

Evelyn winced. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be so obvious.” She put her hands on her sides, right beneath her partially-exposed chest — which he certainly was not looking at. “I feel like my ribcage is going to snap at any moment.”

“Maker, that sounds awful.”

“We should not keep your guests waiting any longer,” said Josephine, before they could continue with their banter. She stepped forward, opening and entering the door in front of them, and beckoning them to follow. As they did, two figures, bedecked in elaborate creations of black velvet and pearls, with sparkling jewels and metals everywhere they could conceivably be placed, rose from their seats and curtseyed low to the floor. Cullen suddenly felt extremely underdressed for the occasion. At once, Josephine launched into the standard introductions.

“Lady Evelyn Lisbeth Trevelyan of Ostwick, Herald of Andraste and the leader of the Inquisition, and Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Inquisition.” She then moved on to the Antivan ladies, both still genuflecting. “Lady Graciela Fermina Ibarra, tenth in line to the Antivan throne, and Lady Rosa Elena Ibarra, seventeenth in line to the Antivan throne.”

They both rose at the sound of their names and titles, likewise raising their faces, framed by sable hair.

“I recognize you,” Cullen blurted out before he could consider the oddity that saying that so suddenly would bring.

Graciela smiled simply. “I should be flattered to have caught your attention.”

It took Cullen a moment, but getting a good look at both of them brought him back to the fateful day of the Antivans’ arrival, to the woman who had leaned over to whisper something in her companion’s ear at his expense. Fantastic.

“I’ll leave you be.” Josephine gave the group a courteous nod of the head and turned to leave, presumably to return to much more relevant and sensible matters.

“You honour me with your presence, Your Worship, Commander,” said Graciela, giving them each a look in turn before gesturing towards the plush, high-backed seats behind her. “Por favor.”

Evelyn clung on tight to Cullen’s arm, just to keep her balance, he figured, and collapsed unceremoniously when she reached the seat nearest to the door. Cullen sat next to her, with a bare modicum of gracefulness, followed by Graciela and Rosa. Before them, on a low table, laid all the fare to be expected at an afternoon tea: tiny cups, tiny plates, tiny utensils, tiny snacks. Rosa took it upon herself to pour a liquid as dark as night for everyone present.

“I hope that I am not imposing on your duties overmuch.” Graciela poured cream and sprinkled a spoonful of sugar into her drink, and mixed it, careful not to ding the spoon against the cup’s edges. “I thought it a great pity to not speak personally with the Herald of Andraste during my stay.”

“The Inquisition always has time for its honoured guests,” announced Evelyn, adopting a careful, formal tone.

“And your husband — what a surprise it was to find out that the Herald had wed her Commander.”

“It was a surprise to many, I understand.” Evelyn glanced at Cullen out of the corner of her eye, in a kind of apologetic acknowledgement.

“Was it love at first sight? How did you win her over?” Rosa asked, nearly on the edge of her seat in excitement. “How did he court you? Oh, I must know.”

“You must excuse my little cousin. She is an incorrigible romantic, always reading silly tales of star-crossed lovers and chevaliers and their aloof maidens.”

“Love conquers all,” Rosa stated matter-of-factly, as her only defense.

Graciela laughed beneath her breath. “Feel free to indulge her, if you wish.”

“Of course we’re willing to share our story.” Evelyn stared at him, and both silently waited for the other to start spinning the tale. Evelyn admitted defeat. “I… kept my feelings concealed at first, as befits a lady, and pined from afar, longing for his affections.” At these words, the wide-eyed Rosa already looked like she was on the verge of swooning.

“Y-Yes, um,” Cullen stuttered, grasping at the half-formed thoughts and gibbering nonsense bouncing around in his skull. He tried to find some basis in reality to pluck from, recalling their first meeting outside of Haven. “The first time I saw her slay a demon with a single stroke, I knew I would have done anything to make her my wife.”

Graciela and Rosa stared, speechless, though Evelyn seemed somewhat impressed with his declaration before hastily tying his addition back into a story of courtship. “And so he sought my favour, in hopes of winning my hand.”

“What did you do?” Rosa, regaining her enthusiasm for the story, posed the question to Cullen.

“Well, all the standard things: flowers.” He struggled to think of anything else. “Flowers, mostly.”

“He is far too humble about his efforts,” Evelyn insisted. “He, uh… poems. Yes, poems. He recited poems to me. That he wrote. For me.”

The young lady touched her hand to her heart and sighed wistfully. “How lovely.”

Cullen scratched the back of his neck. “And I suppose I won you over in the end.”

“You did.” A slight but genuine smile appeared on her flushed face, and she quickly masked it with pursed lips and reached for her cup of coffee.

They spoke at length of topics that Cullen had no mastery over, so he mostly focused on the refreshments. He was unable to find a ratio of cream and sugar that sufficiently veiled the drink’s strong, bitter taste without oversweetening it. For whatever reason, though, he kept trying to find a way to enjoy it; the experimentation kept him busy, at least.

“Your Worship,” said Rosa, sometime after Cullen’s sixth or seventh cup — he was no longer certain. “I must say that I absolutely _adore_ your elven manservant’s paintings.”

“My elven manservant?” Evelyn’s narrowed eyes opened in uncomfortable realization. “You don’t mean Solas, do you?”

“His work is like nothing I’ve seen before,” she continued, completely ignoring the Inquisitor’s interjection. “How much would I have to pay you to have him paint something in my drawing room?”

“With all due respect, Lady Ibarra, that is something I cannot order.”

She seemed confused. “Why not? He answers to you, doesn’t he?”

“He’s that apostate, no?” Graciela plucked a custard tart from one of the serving dishes and chided her. “Tonta, would you really allow that elf in our house just to throw paint on our walls?”

“Perhaps if you attended more galleries, you would have an eye for an artistic genius at work.”

He didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep or something in the eight coffees he had had or just the sheer inanity that they were being subjected to, but Cullen’s patience was wearing thin.

“In any case,” Evelyn jumped in before they could go any further, “I cannot see how that would be possible. Solas is invaluable to the Inquisition’s work; his going to Antiva City just wouldn’t be feasible.”

Rosa frowned, dejected, before a spark lit up her face. “Perhaps I can commission a piece to bring home with me?”

“That is something you would have to speak to him about.”

“Would you come with me?” she pleaded, large eyes glittering. “To convince him?”

“I… suppose? Maybe?”

“Wonderful!” Rosa exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“Wait, you mean now?”

Graciela shooed her cousin away. “Go ahead. I’ll keep the Commander company.”

In what felt like an instant, Evelyn was on her feet, walking unsteadily alongside the much more graceful youth, and then the two were gone. Truthfully, Cullen was not well acquainted with the Inquisition’s resident Fade expert, but he imagined he would not be very amused with the girl’s offer, however she framed it. The room fell into silence as Graciela graciously finished off her tart, careful not to let a single crumb fall. He reached out and took some kind of puffed pastry, consciously and painstakingly trying to maintain the same level of manners that he had just witnessed.

“She does not satisfy you in bed, does she?”

And then he choked and spewed crumbs all over himself.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author tries to plant the seeds of UST, and contemplates if she knows what the hell she's doing.
> 
> As always, your comments give me lots of smiles and dorky laughs. I lack confidence about my writing, but you guys keep me at it.

“Ex—” Cullen coughed hard in an attempt to completely clear his airway, and then continued with a strained voice. “Excuse me?”

She took a casual sip from her drink, as if she had just asked him about the weather or how his day was going, and placed her cup demurely on the table. “You are so tense, strung up. I have an eye for these things.”

He gawked, unable to react in any other way.

Crossing one leg over the other, she leaned on her armrest, towards him, and rested her head on her jeweled hand. She looked at him closely, analyzing him. “She is frigid, no? Does she simply lie there, like a cold, dead fish?”

“I don’t think this is an appropriate—“

“No,” she interrupted, disregarding his protest. “No, that’s not it. You do not even share the same bed, am I right?”

She technically wasn’t _wrong_ , he supposed, but he had no inclination to admit such a thing aloud. He felt like a wild animal encircled by traps, and no matter where he decided to step, he would be walking into a set of serrated jaws. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? After all, Josephine made the consequences of making this lady unhappy fairly clear, and he deferred to her expertise in diplomatic matters. However, she had given him absolutely no guidelines on what to do if Graciela just started talking about what he and the Inquisitor did, or rather _didn’t_ do, in the bedroom.

“So I am right,” she said, responding to his open-mouthed silence. Her long eyelashes flitted down. “It is always a great pity when a handsome man cannot sate his appetite.”

“I am… sated, I assure you.”

“There is no need for deception, Commander.” She placed her hand above her heart, as one does to swear a solemn oath. “Everything you say, and everything you do, will be as safeguarded as were the sacred ashes of Andraste.”

At the moment, he lacked the cognitive abilities to contemplate that Andraste’s ashes _were_ eventually found and revealed to the world, but, in either case, her vow had no effect but further increasing his uneasiness.

He coughed again, still plagued by that puffed pastry. “You… you do know that I’m married, right?” Perhaps throwing out that fact, regardless of how factual it actually was, would draw the conversation back to a less precarious subject.

A coquettish laugh sieved through her painted smile. “Of course I know.” The fingers that she held against her chest moved to brush against his knee, stunning him, and gradually sliding up the inward seam of his trousers. “Do you know the saying? When one field gives you nothing, it is best to plow another.”

The door creaked open and Cullen impulsively leapt to his feet, shoving Graciela off of him, and raced for the door. Just as Evelyn entered, wide-eyed at the figure barreling towards her, he took ahold of her forearm and walked right out, narrowly avoiding colliding with the thankfully-quick Rosa. He led her through the halls, not knowing where he was going, his heart beating in his ears, his brain foggy and muddled. He heard her confusion, but couldn’t stop to address it — not now, not yet. He soon found himself in a deserted room with an unclear purpose, and halted his mad rush, turning to his impromptu captive, releasing her from his grip.

“Cullen, what exactly,” she huffed, trying to catch her breath, “is happen…” She gasped for air, putting her arms behind her back in what appeared to be a futile effort.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice forceful from his sudden concern.

“Unlace me.” When Cullen failed to react to this command immediately, she turned around, displaying the overlapping and tightly-woven laces of her corset, the taut knot of which she was clearly having trouble with herself.

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He wavered for a moment, but her clear desperation moved him to comply. He took the strings into his hands, similarly struggling with the overtight knot, but eventually managed to loosen it. Nonetheless, the corset still constricted her just about as mercilessly, so he continued fumbling with the lacing, slipping his fingers with some difficulty between the firm crisscrosses and her back, pulling them haphazardly through the rings. The rigid ribs of the garment finally slacked, and Evelyn inhaled without restriction, and exhaled with a deep, guttural moan, like she had never felt a greater pleasure than that single breath. Cullen’s cheeks turned pink at the unfortunately evocative sound.

After the Inquisitor took a few more steady breaths, she turned to face him again. The look of relief on her ruddy face instantaneously gave way to worry. “Maker’s breath, why did you storm out like that? What happened?”

His eyes darted about the room as he tried to find the right way to describe it. “I think she was trying to… _seduce_ me.”

“What? Do you mean Graciela?” she asked, clearly having trouble believing this. He nodded. “How… what did she do?”

“S-She was talking about dead fish and appetites a-and Andraste’s ashes and... plowing fields.”

Evelyn crossed her arms and looked at him closely. “Cullen, are you feeling all right? You sound feverish.”

If only it was all just a mad fever dream instead of reality, then he would have been better able to accept the craziness of the situation. “I know what happened, Inquisitor. I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe you misunderstood her? Or something was lost in translation?”

“No,” he said firmly, wishing he had no need to. “She was very… _forward._ ” He then felt a disconcerting itch creep up from his knee.

Evelyn tapped her manicured fingers, something that wouldn’t last long, against her satiny sleeve. The expression painted on her face was a puzzle, and one from which Cullen could not deduce the meaning. That worried him.

“We’ll bring this at tomorrow’s meeting, before matters get out of hand,” she said, lips creased. “We should get back to work, Commander.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” He readily welcomed the suggestion, but something felt off about simply leaving things as they were. There was something he needed to say, something she needed to hear, but he didn’t know what either of those things were — or he did, but could not give those words breath. And he did not.

She gave him a curt nod and turned to leave, giving Cullen one last look at her back, and her strings that he had left lax and undone.

 

When she had gotten some distance away from him, all that Evelyn felt was a toxic fury in her stomach, consuming her from the inside out. She pursed her mouth and bunched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms, trying to contain the feeling within herself, to herself. She stomped through the halls, as best as she could with the high heels of her shoes. In her anger, all she knew what that she had to get away, far enough away that she wouldn’t risk crossing paths with that woman again, or her tight fist just might find its way to Graciela’s teeth. The nerve of that woman, the shamelessness — how dare she do such a thing to _her_ husband.

She stopped in her tracks and stood there, unmoving. Had her mind really been so clouded by rage that fiction had seeped into reality? If Graciela did have her eyes set on the Commander, did it present a problem in their ploy? Certainly. Should she be mad, or the word she didn’t even want to think of, jealous? No. Rationally, there was nothing that should have incited such emotions in her. After all, he was not her husband, nor her lover, but a trusted companion, and the leader of her forces.

Seeing it from a rational perspective should have abated the poison, not augmented its sting. But here she was.

“It burns like hot coals when you picture him. Sometimes it burns good, but not now. He is mine but, no, it is a mask, only a mask. Can she take what I don’t have?”

“Hello, Cole.” There was no need to turn and face his sudden presence; he had been around long enough that she was used to his appearing and disappearing acts. Her voice was softer than it would have been a moment ago; that almost childlike countenance of his made her loath to show him any hostility.

“You shouldn’t punch her,” his preternatural voice intoned with some urgency. “It would not mend the wound.”

He was absolutely right, and the image of Graciela’s bloodied mouth lost its appeal. Mostly. “You must think I’m being silly.”

“No,” he said plainly, and she knew he lacked the capacity for lies and half-truths. “No pain is silly. All hurts hurt. I want to help.”

She was about to outright refuse the offer, but a little, nagging curiosity got the better of her. “What would you do to help, then?”

“He could know. Alone, tinder beneath your skin. You kindle it with your hands, but sometimes they’re his hands, or something else. Sparks into wildfire all over, then it’s all over, and you’re warm. He makes you warm.”

More cryptic orations, but there was something more to it, something tangible to his words. She thought upon it, and then lost all colour in her face. “Promise me you won’t tell him that, Cole.”

“He would be flattered, I think, and embarrassed, his voice falters, but I don’t know why.” The boy was perplexed, trying to grasp something that he could not. “You make him warm sometimes too.”

“Promise,” she insisted, grazing over anything that wasn’t an acknowledgement of her request.

“All right.” he conceded. “There are other ways.”

And he was gone, leaving behind a tenuous haze in the air as the only proof that he had ever been there at all. Evelyn felt calmer after the encounter, although her palms still stung from the force of her fingernails. She continued onwards, now with her quarters set as her destination, so she could the rest of that restrictive dress off, and thought a bit more closely about what Cole had said. Her face gained all its colour back, and then some.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated Valentine's Day (psst it was also my birthday) and post-midterms update!

At nightfall, Evelyn was in her room, curled up in Cullen’s “bed” with a woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a massive tome open in her hands. It was the most boring-sounding history book she could find in the library, and Dorian agreed with her first impressions, for she had hoped that she would pass out with it in her hands and get a decent night’s sleep. Cullen had admitted a similar defeat, as evidenced by the piles of work — maps, letters, books, anything of the sort — that he had smuggled into their quarters. In its most crude terms, these were the ways they had cobbled up to ignore each other, though such labored attempts, in reality, did little to improve the situation. Stolen glances abounded, and desisted when they met for half-seconds, causing them both to focus more intensely on their distractions, but started again soon enough. The saying was excruciatingly true: the harder you try not to think about something, the harder it is to not think about it.

Cullen appeared some time later with a high stack of papers in his arms. “Inquisitor,” he greeted her, walking past to add to the growing mess on her table. She craned her head to the side, no longer able to pretend to be interested in the half-lucid ramblings of some centuries-dead historian and took a stolen glance that lingered for far longer than she would usually allow.

“You’re out of uniform,” she blurted out, commenting on his simple beige shirt, loosely laced up at its collar, and his usual style of pants, with the apparent absence of any armour or embellishment, and thus a much closer approximation of his form beneath the clothes.

He looked down at himself after placing his papers down as neatly as he was able. “I suppose I am.”

“Special occasion?” She bit down on her tongue, urging herself to stay quiet before she said something further that made her sound like an idiot.

“Getting back to my office felt like a forced march. Thought I was baking in my armour.” He ruffled his collar to fan himself, giving her the slightest of glimpses of his collarbones. Evelyn inadvertently bit down harder. “Is coffee supposed to make you feel like your heart’s going to explode?”

“Josephine warned me that some people are really sensitive to it. I probably should have said something,” she said, feeling guilty. “How much did you have?”

“Nine, ten cups,” he mumbled, shrugging, “eleven, maybe.”

She sat silently, wondering how he could have possibly downed so much of the stuff without her noticing. She supposed that trying to keep up the pleasant conversation must have demanded all of her focus but, still, Cullen usually warranted enough of her attention for her to become aware of something like this. And no, she did not just think that. “Does… does your heart actually feel like it’s going to explode? Should I get a healer?”

“No, it’s already passed. I just feel awake now. Very, very awake.”

She did too, despite having consumed less than half of the amount that he did. It was gearing up to be a long, productive night of trying to pretend that the other wasn’t there and basking in the subsequent discomfort.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen called from across the room, before she could fully return to her tedious activity of choice. “I didn’t know you had a chess set in here.”

Her eyebrow quirked up, and she raised her eyes to see him holding up a felt-lined box with chess pieces kept snug in its indentations. Even from a distance, she could tell that it was well-used, but she had never seen it before. “Neither did I. Where did you find it?”

“Right here.” He gestured to the surface of her desk, among all the maps and letters he had stored atop it. If that was the case, she was surprised that she hadn’t come across it before, and even more confused as to how Cullen hadn’t noticed it in the past few nights he had spent at that desk. “Do you play?”

Evelyn nodded. “It’s been awhile though.”

He took one of the pieces out of the box to look at it more closely, almost appreciatively. “You wouldn’t…” He swayed his gaze to her. “Would you care for a game? If you’re not busy, that is.”

She considered for a moment, and then happily tossed the book aside. “Prepare the board, Commander.”

They engaged in some spontaneous redecoration to make the game possible, pulling out  a cleared-off nightstand and dragging two chairs to either side of it. Cullen placed the board atop the table, slightly too small but fair enough in a pinch for the purpose, and began placing the pieces in their designated spots.

“Looks like you’re first, Inquisitor.”

Without thinking, she moved one of her lightly-coloured pieces forward, using the opening she almost always put into play. “I wouldn’t have pinned you for a chess player.”

“My older sister taught me, and beat me, repeatedly.” He took his turn, a fairly standard one, and looked off, as if in thought. “I can still picture how smug she’d every time she won.”

“Good, you’re used to losing, then.” The urge to bite down on her tongue returned. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“What’s any game without a friendly insult or two?” He grinned. “So, since I shared, who taught you?”

“My older sister, too, actually. Mimi.” She boldly made one of her pieces charge out from the back row. “Well, that’s not her name, but Margrethe doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue when you’re a baby.”

“Risky move.” He looked up from the board. “Do you see her often?”

“No, not since she was married off to some distant cousin in Nevarra. I was eight, and she was… eighteen or nineteen, I guess.” She frowned a little when she pictured her sister’s bright face, realizing that she had no idea what she really looked like anymore.

“You must miss her,” he said sympathetically, doubtlessly knowing the same feeling from his own circumstances.

“I cried until I was red in the face when she left,” she admitted, willingly mocking herself for it. “Mimi was my hero, everything I wanted to be. She once threatened to break a boy’s face for me — put the fear of the Maker right in him, too.”

He looked amused and slightly troubled at the notion. “What did he do to earn that?”

“I told him I fancied him, poured my little seven-year-old girl heart out. He said I was gross because my hair looked like boiled carrots.”

“I like boiled carrots.” Cullen winced a second later. “That didn’t come out right, did it?”

Evelyn shook her head, smiling without realizing it herself. “It might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my hair.”

“That’s… a shame, actually. It’s more like—“ He paused, either in contemplation or hesitation. “—fire, like in a hearth. Or sunlight,  sunrise. Amber. Something like that, instead of carrots.”

She remained still as those words washed over her. His voice was soft, unaffected in tone, and she had to take a moment to compose herself.

“Cullen, if you intend to make me drop my guard with flattery, your tactics are sorely misguided.” She moved one of her pieces forward with a clack of wood hitting wood, and removed one of his from the board. “Your turn.”

His chest puffed out with a soft laugh. “Fair enough, Inquisitor.”

They continued on with the game, countering each other’s plays, regretting poorly thought-out moves, taunting each other when they took too long considering their strategy, and demanding rematch after rematch, all while speaking at length of anything that came to mind: siblings, parents, childhood memories, the places they once called home, and really anything else that didn’t touch upon their duties in the Inquisition: martial, diplomatic, nuptial or otherwise — a fact that was eventually noticed.

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition,” said Cullen as he finished setting up his side of the board once again, “or… related matters.”

Evelyn took her first move, once again. “It must be hard to focus on duty when I’m running you into the ground.”

“You’re awfully arrogant for… well, someone who’s doing exactly that.” He breathed in and out, psyching himself up for another match. “Really though, the distraction was sorely needed.”

“We should do this more often, then.” She spoke absentmindedly, tapping her fingers against the board as she took stock of the field, keeping his tactics from previous matches in mind.

“I would like that, Evelyn.”

Caught unawares, her nail clacked sharply against the wood, and then the tapping halted.

“Is something wrong?”

“You called me Evelyn.”

“Yes?” A vivid appearance of dread took over his face, which was so pleasantly relaxed but a moment ago. “That… is your name, isn’t it? Right?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, Maker…”

“No, it is. I just don’t think you’ve ever addressed me by my name while speaking to me before.”

His eyes opened, and his grip gave way. “I must have, haven’t I?” He stopped, intent in thought. “No… I suppose you’re right.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

“A matter of formality and respect, really,” he responded. “The legitimacy of the Inquisition comes into question if we’re all on a first-name basis.”

An array of the times that she had so casually referred to him as Cullen flashed before her in an instant, causing her throat to tighten. “Should I not call you by your name, then?”

“N-No, you don’t need to do that. I mean, it is probably best to do so, but in private,” he said, his voice low but clear, “I would like that.”

They were in the midst of completing that final match, when they realized that their stores of energy were finally running out — and drastically so, for they both had never experienced the downhill lurch of a caffeine crash in the course of their lives. Even in their drowsy stupor, neither one was willing to forfeit their final match, so they agreed to leave the board as it was, each assuring the other they would notice if any of the pieces had mysteriously moved. Their faith in each other’s sportsmanship tentatively ensured, Evelyn and Cullen tumbled into their respective beds, and passed right out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A busy week really chipped into my time for writing this, as well did another, dramatically different story I'm working on (feel free to check that out!). BUT I'm pretty sure I'll have the next part up sooner, since a good chunk of it is already finished.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your kind words. I just can't get over how nice you all are!

A headache upon waking signaled the beginning of what could only be another carefree and straightforward day in the life of the Inquisition’s ambassador. Squinting at dawn’s light, Josephine Montilyet trudged out of bed, bound only by duty and not by the desire to do so. Despite the dull pain pulsing behind her brow, she meticulously attended to all matters of her presentation: her hair, her clothes, her face, even her voice, with which she rolled out a few tongue-twisters, tripping over none of them. She sighed at the slight bags beneath her eyes — a mark of all the stress that she had accrued over the last couple of trying weeks with their Antivan guests. Just the other day, she was cornered by one branch of the Ibarra family who insisted that marrying their son back in Antiva City would be exceedingly beneficial to both the Ibarras and the Montilyets; luckily, the sundry skills she had acquired over her education and many years of experience allowed Josephine to talk her way out of it without offense caused, so she had no need to babble something about already being wed to another.

She often found herself wondering how smoothly all of this could have gone if she had been present at the negotiations, even as much as she tried not to dwell on it. The only thing she could do now was move forward, put her skills to use, and pray that the Inquisitor and the Commander, two people who were much better soldiers than actors, could flounder their way to looking like they had actually fallen madly in love with each other.

Her head twinged again at the thought.

Finding her way to the council room before the others, as usual, she was soon joined by Leliana, and then Cassandra. Greetings were exchanged and preliminary discussion began, and at the point where they could make no further progress without the others, Josephine brought attention to their curious tardiness.

“I’ll send someone to bring them here,” said Cassandra, as annoyed as she usually was at these meetings. Josephine could not blame her for that.

“Now, now,” Leliana chimed, “you don’t know what you could be interrupting.”

Cassandra used her voice to convey her displeasure, but forsook words.

“I’m certain they will appear at any moment now,” Josephine reassured her colleagues, though she would have been tapping her foot in impatience if she hadn’t previously trained herself to not fidget in such a way.

Finally, before annoyance could overtake her decorum, the lovebirds made their less-than-grand entrance, flustering themselves over who was holding the door open for whom.

“Get in here _now_ ,” Cassandra ordered, causing the two to slink in past each other’s courtesies. “What could have possibly taken you so long?”

“Sorry, we didn’t get to sleep until late,” said Cullen, his usual formal tone mixed with a hint of bashfulness, if Josephine was reading him correctly.

In any case, it wasn’t the only thing about his behaviour, or the Inquisitor’s, that caught her eye. Unlike every other meeting they’d had since the charade begun, where they seemed eager to put as much space between each other as possible, they remained rather close at each other’s sides. Also, while they still looked like they needed a full night’s sleep, everything about them — their expressions, their posture, the way they walked — just seemed so much more mellow. She didn’t need to know the reason, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t just a little curious. In the end, she was just grateful for the ease their comfort would bring to the matter, and the thought eased her aching head somewhat.

“Let us not cause any further delay, then,” said Josephine, calling for everyone’s attention. “How was your meeting with Lady Graciela?”

The Commander and the Inquisitor shared an uncomfortable, blanched look. “It was going well,” Evelyn began unsteadily.

Cullen finished the thought. “Until Graciela began to get, uh… _comfortable_ with me.”

And that was all it took for Josephine’s headache to come trampling back. “You cannot mean what it sounds like you mean.”

“She did this with _you_ present?” Cassandra directed the question at Evelyn.

“No, she was polite enough to wait until I left the room.”

With that, Cullen gave a summary of the incident: why he was alone with her, what she said to him, the general area that her hand had wandered to. At that last detail, Josephine noticed the corner of Evelyn’s mouth twitch — a tell that she would be able to conceal, if only her genteel upbringing had been more stringent. Anyhow, Josephine had more pressing matters to think upon.

“This is exceedingly unusual,” the diplomat commented after Cullen, thoroughly disconcerted, finished his testimony. “Her behaviour is just too brazen, the execution too careless.” Then a thought, no matter how outlandish, demanded to be entertained. “An ulterior motive, perhaps?”

Leliana nodded her head in recognition of the idea, but remained noncommittal in her expression. “Maybe so, but sometimes matters can be as simple as they appear. The Lady Ibarra would not be the first among our company to set their sights on our golden-locked Commander.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. Evelyn looked off to the side and wringed her fingers together, clearly without an intention to do so.

“Nonetheless,” Leliana went on, “I’ll make sure that one of my own keeps an eye on her.”

“Hopefully this issue will sort itself out on its own before long. Ser Fermin intends to return to Antiva with his family before the week comes to a close.” With Josephine’s optimistic statement, there was a collective sigh of relief, with various levels of polite restraint from its participants. This newfound Graciela problem aside, even she would admit that the majority of the Ibarras could wear down the nerves like nobody’s business, and everyone would fare better with their departure. Lastly, she added, “Just do not go anywhere alone with her, and everything should be fine.”

“I was not intending to,” said Cullen, with every drop of insistence he could muster, and a stark face.

Josephine nodded, signalling an end to the topic. “In other House Ibarra-related oddities, there have been several requests for our Commander to, well, recite his love poetry.”

“ _What_.”

“I concur, Cassandra,” said Leliana, addressing her balking companion, though with a much more entertained expression. “I’d very much like to hear the reason for this.”

“That would be my fault, wouldn’t it?” Evelyn confessed, covering half of her face with her hands. “I told Lady Rosa that he courted me with poetry. I didn’t think that it would leave that room.”

Josephine sighed, piecing the picture together. “Then you must not be aware of the Antivan obsession with love poetry. Every member of the Ibarra family, men and women alike, yearns to hear the verses that won the heart and hand of our Inquisitor, and it is still in our best interests to keep them as happy as possible.”

The couple both muttered some invocation of the Maker at that moment.

“Then recite a Petran sonnet or something from the Ars Amatus and be done with it.”

“Lovely choices, Cassandra,” said Leliana, with a hint of a grin. “But I believe they want something written by the Commander himself, no?”

“Such is the case,” Josephine admitted, though it was painful, both physically and mentally, to do so. She faced Cullen and dipped her pen into its inkpot, ready to write.“I’ll have a selection of poetry sent to your quarters so you may study its forms and conventions. You’d best get to work.”

 

While Evelyn slept, having retired to her bed early, Cullen’s eyes bored into the paper before him, which was, unfortunately, just as blank as it was an hour ago. Finally admitting that he couldn’t simply will the words into appearing, he took up his pen, and decided that fiddling with it between his fingers might yield better results.

He had managed to plod through a good deal of the works that he’d been assigned. It reminded him somewhat of his days in the Chantry, studying the Canticles, committing passages to memory, meditating upon their meanings. The key difference was that instead of reading of the Maker’s justice and Andraste’s unfaltering devotion, he had to pore over the lamentations of lovers spurned by  the objects of their desire, or grand yarns of a woman’s incomparable beauty. He also swore that at least several of the poems were actually unspeakably filthy, but their elevated style and diction gave him no end of doubt towards the subject.

So daunted by that unmarked page, he decided to write something — anything — so that its clean, white emptiness could no longer taunt him. Steadying the pen, he put its point to the paper, hesitated for a moment, and then let a single word glide across its grain: Evelyn.

He stared at it, ruminating upon how his hand rendered the curve of the letters, at how the “l” stood high above the others, like a watchtower, at the way the “n” swept into a tapered point, making the word complete. How lovely her name looked, even when forged by such an artless hand. A optimistic spark told hold within him; perhaps this would be the source of his inspiration — what would drive the song caught tight in his mind out into the ink. He readied the pen again, prepared to brandish it across the page in a flurry of poetic brilliance.

And he did no more, for he had spent his only idea.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

The days passed by, one after another, bringing Cullen’s deadline ominously and uncomfortably close. Somehow, between all his work and his appointments and his utter lack of knowledge of poetry composition, he managed to devise something that at least _looked_ like poetry, what with its quirky short lines and rhymes. Even though he felt some odd pride for having done any of the work himself, he doubted that the Antivan nobles would show much warmth for his rather amateurish efforts. Forcing himself to overcome his reluctance to do so, he admitted, without a doubt, that he needed help.

“Varric, could I take a moment of your time?”

The dwarf looked up from the book in his hands, which he clapped shut. His boots remained propped up on the table in front of him as he spoke. “Well, since you asked so nicely. What do you need, Curly?”

Cullen faltered, considered the option of simply leaving and apologizing for bothering him, but stood his ground. He took a piece of paper, crumpled from being laxly folded many times over, out from his jacket, offering it to Varric. “I was hoping you could tell me your thoughts. As a writer, I mean.”

With an unsure air about him, as if he suspected this to be some kind of trap, he took the page, quickly scanning over the entirety of its contents. “Is this a poem?” he asked, incredulous. “Did _you_ write this?”

He nodded, not embellishing his reply with a vocal response.

“Well, let’s see what we have here.” Varric’s eyes moved from left to right, slowly absorbing the text in front of him. With each line, his face shifted dramatically, as if reading a different genre from moment to moment; his brow crinkled with concern, then eyes narrowed in confusion, then mouth open in awe, then a stifled laugh. “‘Without her, I am like a sword without a sheath,’” he read aloud, with a serious tone that belied any of his amusement. “That’s racier than I’d expect from someone like you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You see, the sword is a symbol for—“ he abruptly stopped himself. “No, you wouldn’t be asking if that was your intent. Forget about it.”

The order, of course, just made Cullen focus harder on that line as Varric continued reading. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t the slightest clue what the comment meant, and before he could dig himself deeper into the thought, Varric had finished.

“So, uh… it’s not bad for a free verse poem, I guess?” he said cautiously, as if being too harsh on the Commander’s work would make him burst into tears, or something in that vein.

“It’s supposed to be a sonnet.”

He gawked at Cullen for that statement, and then looked back at the paper. “But there’s no clear meter, and the rhyme scheme is all over the place. Look, you don’t even have fourteen lines.”

“I know, I couldn’t think of anything else to write,” Cullen admitted, shoulders slacking. “Do you have any advice?”

“If I were you, I’d stick to commanding.” The joke didn’t take. “I guess that’s not what you want to hear. Well, poetry’s not exactly what I’m known for, but I could try fixing it up, changing some things here and there.”

“You would do that?” Cullen blurted out in the whiplash between despair and hope. “You would have my utmost appreciation, and you’d be compensated for your work, of course.”

Varric held up his hands to reject the offer. “Consider it an act of good will. I give you something you worth courting the Inquisitor with, and when all this apocalyptic crap is over — if it’s _ever_ over — you just make sure that the world has an ample supply of curly redheads with big swords. Maker knows we’re lacking.”

“I-I, uh… thank you, Varric, that’s very—“ he interrupted himself, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Why would I need something to court her with? She’s already my wife.”

“Ah, right, right. My mistake,” he said with the quickest of winks.

It was, in fact, so quick that Cullen wasn’t sure if his own eyes were playing tricks on him. He decided to give it no further thought, at least for the moment, and heaped gratitude upon Varric before taking his leave.

 

On the appointed day, at the appointed hour, every member of the Ibarra family present in Skyhold congregated together in the main hall, confirming Josephine’s earlier assertion about Antivans and and their love of poetry concerning love. The air was rich with chatter and subdued laughter, as well as the strong scent of dozens of cups of steaming coffee, of which both Evelyn and Cullen declined to partake of. The hoary but bright-faced Fermin was seated in a central place of distinction, alongside Anton and Graciela. Evelyn had yet to see those two side by side until that moment, and their almost uncanny similarity left an impression on her; they shared the same face, makeup excluded, the same hair, in texture and colour both, and the same semblance of complete disinterest in what was going on around them at that point in time. Graciela, realizing that she caught the Inquisitor’s attention, hooked her dark red lips up into a saccharine smile that Evelyn had to force herself to return.

Once all of the greetings and formalities were out of the way, the family patriarch himself took the stage, as it were. From memory, with only as much difficulty as if he was exhaling it out, he recited a series of interlinked sonnets that he claimed won the heart of his dearly departed wife.

After the awed and bounteous applause that followed, a heated discussion erupted over who would go next, a different Ibarra would give their performance, and the performance cycled repeatedly in such a manner. Nearly everyone in the family was eager to join in the revelry, either with works by their own pen or the pen of another. During a round of particularly riotous applause, the kind of which Evelyn would have never associated with a _poetry reading_ , Cullen titled his head over to her and murmured, “What’s going on?”

“A competition?” she guessed. “Or… some Antivan thing?”

“We have tantalized ourselves for long enough, no?” Fermin’s voice boomed over the crowd, calming them, if only for a time. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand from Cullen to the stage. “If it please you, Commander.”

He took it as an order instead of an invitation, and stepped forward, standing about where the others had before him. He removed a sheet of paper, folded once lengthwise but otherwise immaculate, from his jacket, probably with some degree of shame, given that everyone else had recited their works from memory. Nonetheless, his demeanour was calm and confident, as if he was about to address his troops before battle, but Evelyn could see beyond that. His brow was tense, forming a slight crease, and his lips rolled repeatedly inwards, irritated by their own dryness. She had seen the same look from across the chessboard, whenever he was about to make a risky and usually suicidal move. She made a silent plea to Andraste that all would go well, and Cullen would make it through this with his dignity intact.

“For Evelyn,” he declared, following suit with his forerunners, before adding, “my wife, of course.” He cleared his throat, and focusing his eyes on his paper, began:

 

“There’s no darkness my lady cannot fell

Nor no flame that her eyes cannot ignite.

I lack the words to even start to tell

How enthralled I am, how she stokes my plight.

For whene’er I see the face of my queen,

I know her radiance I cannot return.

A lowly man should of her only dream

And deserves no more than the bitter spurn.

Yet even so, she takes me by the hand,

My fountain of joys and my every delight.

With humble heart beside her will I stand,

For she is my day, and I am her knight.

Come wounds, come ills, come death’s relentless tide —

There’s naught that will e’er take me from her side.”

 

Evelyn closed her mouth, not wanting to know the length of time that she had been gaping at the sight before her. A weighty hush blanketed the hall, snuffing out every noise within it, until one person’s steady clapping broke the silence. Evelyn turned her head to the source, to the gloved hands of Graciela. Everyone followed the lady’s lead, including Evelyn, having realized the peculiarity of her apparent non-reaction. She also noticed the face of Graciela’s cousin, the love-obsessed Rosa, so moved that her eyes literally glistened with tears. Evelyn wondered, as the supposed inspiration for the poem, if that emotionally-charged reaction should have been her own, but knew that it was too late to try and force something like that out of her.

With a look that said that he had just had the weight of the world taken off of his shoulders, Cullen simply nodded to acknowledge the applause and unceremoniously returned to his seat. After several more passionate performances and refused cups of coffee, the two finally took their leave. They politely but steadily pushed their way through Cullen’s newfound admirers, who were eager to shower their praise upon the Commander and his unexpected grasp of the lyrical art. Of that matter, at least, Evelyn could find common ground with the Antivan nobles.

 

They retired to their quarters for the night, both craving a degree of solitude after that ordeal. Though, at least in Evelyn’s case, the desire for solitude was not complete.

“I could use some air.” She directed Cullen’s attention towards the balcony. “Join me?”

“As you wish.”

After making the short trip together, she rested her elbows on the railing, letting her weight shift off from her. She drew the crisp air deep into her lungs, letting it chill her and kindle all her senses awake.

“So, that went better than expected, didn’t it?” said Cullen, who appeared to interpret her repose as an awkward silence. Evelyn turned to looked at him, her head rested in her palm, but kept quiet. “What is it?”

“You didn’t write that, did you?”

“I did,” he insisted. “I just had Varric take a look at it, and he offered to make some improvements.” He scratched at the side of his neck, and looked away from her accusatory stare. “By… changing pretty much everything.”

Her face lit up, curiosity piqued. “But you did write something yourself?”

“Unfortunately,” he admitted, looking pained for having to do so. “The saddest part of the matter is I didn’t realize how awful it was until Varric corrected it for me.”

She tapped her fingers on the stone, building up the will to give the thoughts in her head a voice. “I’d like to hear what you wrote. Before Varric got to it, I mean.”

He recoiled at the request, more strongly than she would have expected. “It really _is_ awful. I’d never forgive myself for subjecting you to it.”

“I think I can take it,” she said with a sincere tone, standing up straight. “Indulge me, Cullen.”

His gaze darted to and from her face, now just about at his level. With a squarely defeated sigh, he groped around his jacket, extracting what looked like a piece of crumpled trash out from it. After a fairly drawn-out process of unfolding and smoothing it, it was transformed into a single page, filled with writing that was obviously by Cullen’s own hand. He took one last look at her face, so full of anticipation, and read to her.

“My… My Evelyn glows like fire, and not just her hair, she is so bright I could follow her anywhere. I think of her at breakfast, and at supper, because maybe she is like food, and I cannot live without her. Without her, I am a bow without an arrow, a shield without a handle, a sword without a sheath… o-oh, Maker.” He winced, as if coming to a sudden and uncomfortable realization, as his face reddened, visible even in the low light. Then, as if to remove himself from the embarrassment, even if that meant bringing a different embarrassment upon himself, continued.

“And there’s still a part of me that cannot believe, that I’d ever actually have a wife like my Eve.”

“Eve?” she interjected, with a slight laugh.

“It made it rhyme,” he sheepishly confessed, and cleared his throat to regain his volume. “She is strong enough that she doesn’t need me to protect her, but I still hope she would always want me near.” He paused, furling his brow. “Wait, that doesn’t really rhyme, does it?”

“Close enough.”

“I’d be amazed if there has ever been, anyone that comes close to my Evelyn.” He exhaled, and then gradually looked up from his paper. “That’s all of it. I know that’s not enough lines for a sonnet, but I…”

His voice faded into the cool air when his gaze met with hers, when he realized just how close she was to him. Even Evelyn had not realized the fact until that moment, seeing his brown eyes from so short a distance, how she had gravitated towards him. It was as if her consciousness had been swept away in the moment just past, and it had been breathed back into her, though not completely. With deliberate thought and reason, all that was there to stop her, still fumbling their way back into mind, only impulse remained to take hold the reins. She closed the gap between their bodies, pressing her lips lightly to his.

She quickly pulled herself away, her awareness coming back to her like an electric jolt. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

The sentence never found closure, and it never would. Tossing the paper aside and snapping her into his arms, he kissed her back with a force that made the act clumsy — noses brushed together a little too roughly, lips not quite meeting at first — but neither backed away. Their disjointed movements soon melded into a singular rhythm, the fulfillment of a too-long suppressed thirst that, now, could only increase. And though they had not nearly had their fill, they finally parted, but remained in each other’s embrace.

Evelyn smiled and touched her hand to his warm cheek, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips. “You are a much better kisser than you are a poet.”

“I can live with that,” he said with a laugh, as resonant as they ever were in his sincerity, and she couldn’t keep herself from leaning back in once more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again!
> 
> I was so happy to see all the positive reactions to the last chapter, and I was so excited to post it. YES THE DORKS FINALLY KISSED. :D
> 
> Now let's see where I can take these dorks next.

“We’ll never be ready if you keep doing that,” Evelyn chided after his lips slipped away from hers.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” Cullen removed another piece of her polished armour from its stand and began to fasten it around her form. “It may be that I’m still convincing myself that this is real.”

As he did so, she fiddled with the red fabric that hung from her waist, the most obvious sign that she wasn’t about to head off into battle. “It is an idle curiosity,” she began, focusing more intently on her fidgeting as she spoke, “but when you kissed me, how long had you wanted to do that?”

“Longer than I should admit,” he said with a soft sigh. He dared not return the question, even though he shared her curiosity. After dressing her in the final piece of the suit, he patted against the metal to make sure it was all secure. “See? All done. There was no rush.”

He stood in front of her, taking a step back and smiled as he looked her over, searching for imperfections and finding none. She straightened out the skirt that she had been playing with, shifted her braid over her shoulder, and looked down at herself, turning slightly from side to side. “How do I look? Regal? Influential?”

“Stunning,” he answered without missing a beat. He could recognize the look on her face at that moment, the expression she made when she was happy, but didn’t want anyone to know — though she didn’t try nearly as hard to do so in his sole presence anymore. Before she could insist on the lack of time they had left, he snatched up the opportunity to kiss her again, tangling her fingers in her hair, adding to a count that he had long since lost track of that morning alone. He then rested his forehead against hers, savouring their last moments of shared solitude until nightfall.

“Evelyn,” he said softly, for being any louder was not necessary, “I care for you. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” It is a simple answer, but it holds so much within itself — more than he ever thought possible to have.

Cullen moved away, then moved his hand forward to fix the lock of hair that he had unintentionally loosed in his embrace. Evelyn shook her head, stopping him. “Leave it be. It can be our secret.”

The idea appealed to him, that although their alleged relationship was so public, with everything about it known or at least thought to be known, they could have something that was theirs, and only theirs. Looking upon those copper strands with the knowledge of their meaning filled him with a simple joy, so he did as she suggested, and instead offered his hand to her.

“Shall we, then?”

 

At a brisk pace, Cullen walked to the courtyard, with Evelyn at his side. Although the steel of her suit clanked together as she moved, she walked with infinitely more grace than she did bound in a corset or in high-heeled shoes. Both sights had their charms, but there was something entrancing about her moving around so smoothly in metal as one would in cotton.

Outside, the whole of the Ibarra family had gathered together, all dressed in clothes that were heavy and layered, but still lavish, and suitable for a long journey through the snowy mountains. Despite being clothed so, most of the Antivans were visibly displeased with the chill of early morning, doing little to disguise their uncomfortable expressions. On the other hand, Ser Fermin was, as always, a picture of pure cheer, all bundled up in his fluffy fur coat. As much as his family was a pain in the neck, to put it nicely, and their impending departure brought a relief he could barely contain his thankfulness for, Cullen could find nothing to really dislike about Fermin, even if the man’s tendency to treat anyone more than an acquaintance like a family member made him somewhat uneasy.

“My Lady,” he exclaimed, taking Evelyn into a familial embrace and giving her a peck on each cheek, which she tried to accept amiably, “I cannot express my gratitude for the hospitality you have shown my family and I.”

“You honour me, Señor,” she said back, having decided that she could handle a sprinkle of Antivan far better than a full sentence of it.

He then turned to offer his hand to Cullen, and thankfully nothing else, which was taken with a firm grip. “The Inquisition’s armies are in good hands, as is the Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

He pulled himself in close and lowered his voice. “Have her on top of you; that’s how you get sons.”

Fermin gave the dumbfounded Cullen a fatherly pat on the arm before falling back with the rest of the Ibarra clan. By the time that he processed what was said to him, Evelyn had taken a step forward, with her gilded armour glimmering in the sunlight, representing the might and the mission of the entire Inquisition as a lone woman. As Cullen strove not to think of the symbol of their cause on top of him, she raised her voice to speak to the crowd.

“Ser Fermin Ibarra, I have few words to offer you in return for that which you have offered the Inquisition, for words are not enough to convey the depths of my gratitude. Therefore, I pray that Your Excellency and your distinguished family will accept my oath: that with your resources, and with your support, we shall be victorious.”

Her audience erupted into applause from the Inquisition and its allies alike, while Cullen looked on with admiration. It was hard to not notice that Evelyn’s words were sometimes stiff, and her meticulous selection of them often made her pause. Still, he could always see the fire in her eyes when she spoke of her duty, and he could see the way she spread that fire to others. He knew that even if all else fell into shadow, she would remain alight, and he would remain in love.

He thought that, he realized. He really did.

“I have no doubt of your ability to do so,” Fermin announced as the cheers began to die down. “And so I freely offer a gift to you, the illustrious Herald of Andraste, in honour of your marriage.”

After making a signal and calling out something in his tongue, ten of his servants approached in a procession, each leading one jet-black horse by the bridle on either side. Despite not having extensive knowledge about horses beyond how to ride one, Cullen could tell by a passing glance at their gaits and musculature that they were of exceptional stock.

“Twenty of the finest war stallions from the finest breeder in all of Antiva,” said Fermin, exuding pride in his declaration. He took ahold of the reins of one such horse and led it forward, offering them to Evelyn.

“I cannot possibly accept such a generous gift, Ser,” she asserted, taking on a deferential tone.

“Tonterías, querida. Nonsense,” he said with a laugh, offering the reins once more. “I insist.”

Humbly bowing her head down, she took them, giving the horse a cautious pet on its neck, followed by a more committed stroke downwards on its face that spurred a soft nicker. “Thank you, Ser.”

He beamed, content with her acceptance, and looked between Evelyn and his own family. “I speak on behalf of us all when I say that it grieves me to have to depart, but I am assured of the bond between House Ibarra and the Inquisition. And, to ensure that this bond continues to flourish, I leave here, as my liaison, my dear daughter” — Wait, no. No, no, no — “Graciela.”

“What?” Cullen and Evelyn exclaimed together as the ever-bedecked Graciela separated herself from the group.

“What a… lovely arrangement,” Evelyn stammered while she tried to save face, clearing her throat. “It is a pleasure to have your continued presence, Lady Graciela.”

“No, the pleasure is all mine, Your Worship.” Upon saying so, her eyes swept their way to Cullen in a knowing gaze that sent a chill straight up his spine. “I assure you.”

_Maker preserve me._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too much fun being mean to these dorks.

Contrary to the fantastical imaginations of the Inquisition’s otherwise level-headed leader and Commander, Graciela Ibarra’s extended stay did not immediately bring hellfire raining down upon all of Skyhold. In reality, she failed to bring much at all to the day-to-day happenings of the Inquisition. In the weeks that passed, one could almost forget that she was even there, save for flashes of black velvet flowing around corners from time to time. While Evelyn was away on business, Cullen, fearful of being left alone and vulnerable to ambush, made up every and any reason to require a subordinate at hand at all times. At one point, he stayed by the side of a new recruit for an entire day to “better understand the experiences of a fresh soldier under his command,” going as far as taking all of his meals in the mess hall with the skittish, singled-out recruit and sleeping in a bunk in the barracks. Unfortunately, while the experience was somewhat enlightening, and brought up some issues that he could bring up at the next meeting, his excuse to engage in such behaviour could only work once, and more and more he was left in solitude. Still, no matter what, absolutely nothing happened. But instead of offering relief to Cullen and Evelyn, Graciela’s apparent inactivity only created a deeper sense of dread, as if she was a snake in the grass, unseen but always ready to strike.

“In other matters,” said Josephine, having let the discussion about what in the Maker’s name Graciela was up to go on for far too long, “in the wake of Ser Fermin’s exceedingly generous wedding gift, many others have followed suit, as you may have noticed.” She glanced down at her extensive list of patrons and their associated offerings. “You’ve thus far received perfumes, silks, jewels, wines, tapestries, swords, teacups, hats, spices, cutlery, furs, an autographed copy of Swords and Shields, more horses, a solid gold and jeweled nug, a peacock—“

“Is that the bird in the gardens that never stops screaming?”

“Yes, Commander. I’m sure the Comtess de Vanier would insist upon the aesthetic value of the gift, rather than its musical ability. We’ve also received an offering from our Avvar allies, a rather,” she cleared her throat, “graphic idol of their god of fertility along with the… blood of a pregnant goat.”

“That’s, um, very considerate of them,” said Evelyn, squinting in thought. “Right? The goat blood isn’t a threat or something, is it?”

Josephine shook her head, though it was clear that she wasn’t completely sure either. “I am no expert in Avvar traditions, but I’ve been told that it’s to be used in a ritual to make marriages more, well, fruitful.”

“I can hear the pitter-patter of little feet already.” Leliana turned her head to a baffled Cullen. “Do you want to hear what you were instructed to do with the blood?”

“I would rather not.”

“Regardless of what the gift is,” Josephine stepped in to reclaim the conversation once more, “the giver will feel slighted if they believe that it was offered under false pretenses. I need not inform you of how disastrous the results would be if we insulted our wealthy benefactors and influential allies.”

Evelyn nodded, able to imagine the consequences perfectly. “So be sure to keep the act up, then, you mean.”

“Well, of course. You’re both getting so good at it, too,” said Leliana, with a knowing smile.

Leliana’s observation was not untrue, of course. Anyone within Skyhold’s walls would no longer look at their interactions together and see an awkward pair with the bare basics of intimacy at their disposal, and would instead see a more natural pair, much like a teenaged couple experiencing love for the first time, rosy-faced to receive each other’s attention, stealing kisses when they thought nobody was looking. It was an improvement, at least.

 

The duty of the Inquisitor was a solemn and noble task, certainly, but it was also a burden that weighed heavy on the mind and the nerves. At least, that’s what Evelyn told herself when she took any opportunity to unwind: a second glass of wine, a moment to soak in the incredible locales she finds herself in, a chapter from one of Varric’s more unsavory works, and so on and so forth. Having Cullen handy as a chess player at all odd times of the night was also a welcome distraction, but it unfortunately emphasized how she’d not had a single night to herself in her quarters since the ruse began — something that made one of her most potent forms of leisure all but impossible.

So, during one afternoon where she found herself straining to focus on anything else, she slipped away to her room. She assuaged her guilt, repeating the maxim in her head, telling herself that there was no shame to be had in keeping herself in tip-top shape, whatever needed to be done to achieve that. She reclined in her bed, propping herself against a hill of pillows and letting her words convince her sufficiently, then wriggled her pants and smallclothes down until they were bunched around her ankles. Her hands ambled as they please, following their whims from moment to moment, setting the stage for a more fixated effort yet to come. Her eyes closed and her mind wandered, as it was wont to do, and she did little to hinder the images she created to gratify herself.

Without fail, she conjured his image, and though it was but a phantom of him, it served its purpose, and it served it well: those blonde curls, perhaps more disheveled than he would allow them to be, his hands, weathered and strong, the scar that cuts through his lip, that she felt when he kissed her. There was some shame, perhaps, to setting his visage to such a task, but she no longer carried the same reservations about doing so as she did before. After all, what she pictured now seemed fully in the realm of possibility. At some point. Maybe.

Shaking off her justifications for not feeling guilty about this, she returned her thoughts to his kisses. She had a surfeit of them, since he was so generous, and their repeated presence in her days were so vivid in her memory that she could almost will herself to feel them anew against her mouth. They were a wonderful touch: a perfect blend of soft and rough, of giving and hungering, and they only improved day after day. Evelyn allowed herself to imagine that sensation, to let that mirage wander away from where the man had tread in the flesh. To the front of her neck, freely offered to him. To the swell of her chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath, as it did in that moment. To the birthmark just at the side of her navel, giving her torso its particular asymmetry, wondering what he would think, if he would remark on it. And, at the end of what seemed to be a natural progression, to the spot between her thighs, where he hands were busy at work. And she was close, so close, on the very edge of release.

“Alone, tinder beneath your skin. You kindle it with your hands, but sometimes they’re his hands, or something else. Sparks into wildfire all over, then it’s all over, and you’re warm. He makes you warm.”

The sound of the door opening and closing from the level below reached her ears, startling her to silence and stillness, the latter of which did not last for more than an instant. In a panic, she tried to pull her clothes back up, but the task apparently required more precision than was available to her in her disoriented state, and she couldn’t get the fabric past her knees. Desperate and well aware of her time running out, she threw a blanket over herself, letting only her head peek out from it. From around the stairs appeared the face of the last person she wanted to see at that very moment.

“Inquis— “ Cullen flinched, stopping himself from referring to her in the way expected of him during the day. “Evelyn, what are you doing in bed?”

She shrugged her shoulders, too muddled to realize that she had given him the most vague and suspicious answer she probably could.

He stepped forward, clearly unable to perceive all of her mental protests for him not to. “You’re all red,” he commented, concerned, pressing the back of his hand to her flushed cheek, “and burning up. Are you feeling all right?”

“Just… felt like I needed some time in bed.” It was not a lie, phrased so.

Cullen frowned, making an expression that just made her face redder with shame for worrying him. “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you?”

She briefly wondered how he would react if she answered that truthfully. Would he take it as a joke and try to laugh it off? Back away in panic? Sigh in relief, exclaim “finally!”, and join her beneath the sheets?

“Mm-mm,” she grunted softly, shaking her head from side to side.

“I’ll not disturb you more, then. I just forgot some papers in here.”

He leaned over the bed and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. She made an unintelligible, high-pitched noise in reaction to his touch, and sunk further into the mattress, praying that it would swallow her whole and take this entire situation away. What felt like an unreasonable amount of time painfully passed by as he shuffled through the contents of his desk, unrolling maps and rolling them back up until he had found the right one. She nearly forgot to breathe, as if doing so would be a dead giveaway to what she was actually doing, and somehow every little piece of her mind would be divulged to him. Eventually, finally, he stepped away from the desk, with his papers tucked under his arm.

“Feel better, Evelyn,” he told her with a smile that crinkled his eyes, and then gradually disappeared from view as he descended down the stairs.

She waited until the door shut tight, and exhaled loudly in agony. Unable to return to her world and her responsibilities after what had transpired, she resigned herself and flipped over on her stomach. She smothered her fiery face deep in her pillows, groaning into the fabric and feathers, ignoring that her pants were still around her knees for the time being.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! A lot has been going on lately, so this has been on and off of the back burner, but there's definitely more in store. :)
> 
> I think it's about to get anachronistic in here.

 The scent of fresh dew on grass hovered all about Skyhold that morning, along with the trilled songs of birds, the nearly incessant squawking of that blighted peacock included. At the front gates, Evelyn jumped at a particularly piercing screech that followed a pause, and blushed for allowing herself to be so easily startled. As usual, Cullen had removed himself from his work to see her off. This time, she was heading off to investigate strange happenings in the Fallow Mire.

“I will pray for your safe return,” said Cullen, “though I know you will not need me to.”

The still-blushing Inquisitor tried to hold back a grin. “You could instead pray that my socks stay dry. Nothing ruins a day like wet socks.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” he replied with a soft laugh.

She pursed her lips, transforming her mouth into a well-defined line, and then said, “No, I can think of something worse.”

“Worse than wet socks?”

“Worse.” She lowered her voice to a hush. “Vivienne’s coming with us today, and I think I’ve personally affronted her by eloping.”

“I… what do you mean?”

Sighing as if in pain, Evelyn continued. “She insists that a big, lavish wedding would do wonders for the Inquisition’s prestige, and it’s an opportunity that we’ve completely squandered. She hasn’t stopped trying to convince me to have a ceremony for show — even has famous Orlesian seamstresses and bakers on standby for when she finally breaks me down.”

He briefly wondered what she would look like in an Orlesian wedding dress but, not being well-acquainted with their current trends (or those from any period of time), his mind could only evoke an impossibly large mass of white fabric that made her look more dress than woman, along with some ridiculous hat. He shook away the bizarre image. “Is it so bad? It’s just talk, isn’t it?”

“But it’s _incessant_ ,” she groaned, rolling her eyes away to the side. “Always saying things like ‘What point is there in getting married if you don’t have a wedding that makes you the envy of every court in Orlais?’”

“The person you’re marrying, I’d hope.”

Her gaze moved back to cross with his and, upon doing so, she smiled, however subtly. Cullen reacted, instinctively leaning in to have his lips meet hers. Before it was too late, she deftly turned her head to the side, letting his kiss fall on her cheek.

“You’ll have to wait until I return.” Evelyn’s eyes flitted from side to side, scanning the crowd around her, even as bustling and busy as they were. She had trouble keeping a facetious haughtiness out of her voice. “Whatever would the Inquisition think if they saw us like this?”

“That I lov—“

“Break it up, both of you,” Cassandra butted in, seemingly appearing out of thin air. “The others are waiting.”

“I’ll be right there,” Evelyn said apologetically as Cassandra walked past her. She looked back to Cullen. “You were saying something?”

He released his tongue from in between his teeth, put there to chastise it for being leagues more reckless than he would ever allow, and told her, “I hope your business will not keep you away long.”

“I hope so too.” Her eyes lit up as she took in one last lingering look at him. Lowering her head, she turned around and began to walk away, pulling her helmet over her head.

Cullen stood there still as a stone, breath tight in his chest, until she had put what he considered an adequate amount of distance between them. Finally, he exhaled, and resigned himself to his usual daily tasks: providing his services to the Inquisition, and staying the hell away from Graciela and her unique ideas about personal space. He made his way back to his office, praying for a constant stream of visitors to keep his risky solitude at bay.

 

The days passed without incident, and with nearly endless work to keep Cullen busy, focused and accompanied — planning, training, convening, reconvening, correspondence, both the reading and writing of. He had also, after much self-convincing, taken advantage of Evelyn’s absence by retiring to her bed at night. For doing so, he received  what he swore was the best sleep he had ever had in his entire life, and questions about how creating such a wonderful piece of furniture was even possible.

Several days after the Inquisitor’s departure, he had received a letter by her hand, detailing her party’s latest whereabouts and actions. It was a completely standard and curt report until he reached the bottom of the page, where the words “Please give my regards to my husband, the Commander — Inquisitor Trevelyan” were scrawled, separate from the rest of her neat writing. He contemplated the presence of these words for some time, and wondered: did she think people would be suspicious if she didn’t include such a sentiment for him, even in a formal field report? Did she think it necessary to specify who her husband was, as to avoid any confusion? Did she forget that these reports went straight to _his_ desk, sealed, as soon as they arrived in Skyhold? It was bewildering, but he couldn’t help but think of her decision to include them, whatever her reason was, and grin during a private moment. He had few of those, though. Thankfully.

But one evening, everything died down into silence far before it usually did. There were no more people to plan with. Nobody to train. Nobody to convene or reconvene with. Not even a messenger to bring or take letters. There was only him, alone. He wondered if there was something he forgot about, somewhere he was supposed to be, and if he was making himself look like a fool with his absence, but all of his notes assured him that nothing was scheduled for that night. As time drudged itself further into the night, and brought no one into his office, he was on the cusp of retreating to the Inquisitor’s quarters. He absorbed himself in a bit more work to justify leaving early, when his concentration was interrupted.

“Evening, Commander. Do you have a minute?”

He raised his head to the voice’s source, to a face that he just barely recognized. “Of course. It’s… Krem, right?”

“Right you are.” He nodded, arms crossed. “The chief wanted to see you, had some suggestions about morale in the ranks.”

“He’s always welcome to speak with me here.”

Krem shot a dubious look at him, as if Cullen had just made some sort of faux-pas. “Bull isn’t particularly fond of leaving a cave he’s burrowed himself into. If it’s no trouble, he’d prefer you came to the tavern. Would even buy you a drink, I bet.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if drinking and working would be a gain him much approval, nor if it was best to carry out Inquisition duties in a tavern. On the other hand, handling the concerns of his soldiers _was_ one of his duties, and the Iron Bull was to be found in a haunt that someone of the Lady Ibarra’s impeccable breeding would never deign to set foot in, so having this talk fulfilled both of his requisites perfectly, he had to admit. “All right. I could probably use some time out of the office, anyway.”

“I expect that that’s what the chief has in mind.”

Something about Krem’s tone caught his attention, though he couldn’t at all place why. He attributed his uneasiness to his imagination, always so active these days, and tried to shrug it off as he let himself be led to Skyhold’s one and only pub. When he passed through the doorway and looked over the crowd, he immediately knew that the place was far more crowded than he had ever seen it before. Granted, he had only been there a few times before, though one of those times was the tavern’s grand opening. It had been at the behest of Evelyn, back in a far-off time before she was his “wife,” who insisted that his troops might be able to better relate to a Commander who could loosen up once in awhile. So he showed up, kept a mug in his hand to make him seem more laidback, though he barely drank from it, and shared some words with a crowd that was dwarfed by the one he had just walked into. He kept following Krem through the mass of people, noticing faces that were noticing his presence, until they reached the wall opposite of the one they started at. Bull was seated there, though he got up to his feet upon spotting Cullen, forcing the Commander to look up to make eye contact with him.

“Great, you made it!” exclaimed Bull, and although he was able to make himself heard over all the hurly-burly, it was still somewhat difficult to be completely sure of what he said. “Good work, Krem.”

“Nothing to it, chief.” He shared a nod with his boss, and then disappeared, quite easily, into the crowd behind him.

Cullen cleared his throat and, having trouble hearing himself do so, purposefully spoke at a volume he generally reserved for the midst of battle. “You wanted to speak about... morale, was it?” He momentarily found himself distracted by a soldier, who he recognized as one of his best archers, raising a mug and whooping in his Commander’s general direction.

“Huh? Oh, right, right. But, hey, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He turned to the side and made a motion with his hand. As if she had been waiting to be called upon, a young woman in an impeccably white healer’s garb, though with an elaborate hairstyle that seemed impractical for the work, approached.

“Cullen,” said Bull, “this is Chastity.”

The one apparently called Chastity, though he might have been mishearing Charity or Cassidy, enthusiastically held out her hand for Cullen to shake. “It’s such an honour to meet you, Commander. The work you’ve done with these soldiers is remarkable.”

“Thank you,” he replied, trying to find that perfect balance between not being heard and screaming in her face. “Though I must take this opportunity to say that your duties are invaluable to the Inquisition. We would not be able to function without your expertise.”

She smiled, accepting the compliment without reservation. “Well, aren’t you sweet. It’s not often I receive the recognition I deserve.” Bull cleared his throat and she winked at him. “Except from you, of course.”

Next, before he could really react, Cullen was practically thrown down into Bull’s former seat, by Bull himself. The Qunari plopped down into the seat beside him. Assuming that it was time to get down to business, even though the environment was abhorrent for it, Cullen said, “I actually have several plans I’d like to implement to improve troop morale. Maybe I could get your input—“

“So I recently learned about a Fereldan tradition so incredible that I didn’t think your lot had the balls to come up with it,” Bull began, either ignoring or not catching Cullen’s voice. “Do you know it? You take a man who’s about to get married, gather all his friends in one place, get him piss drunk,” at those words, he grabbed and shoved a mug filled to the brim into Cullen’s hands, causing him to spill some on the fabric atop his breastplate, “and then you lob naked, writhing women at him.”

Cullen immediately stopped trying to clean up the mess he made, said “what” even though he heard Bull perfectly, and saw a flash of white fabric thrown to the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned from the dead! Which is to say, I finished my last final exam about 18 hours ago. I hope this longer update makes up for the horrendous wait. :)

Evelyn winced, eyes shut and scrunched up all tight, lips sealed, fists clenched — everything she could do to keep that groan of displeasure inside — as the murky water from the almost knee-high puddle infiltrated her boots, absolutely soaking her thick, previously warm socks. All it took was a moment of carelessness, one instant of poor judgement, one misplaced step, and everything was ruined. She could almost appreciate the poetic parallel with the state of her life, but focusing on that for too long would certainly drive her mad, and she already had more than enough sources of madness to go around.

“Do be more careful, my dear. What if you were wearing something nicer?” intoned Vivienne, who Evelyn reckoned was the only person who could walk about in a bog as if she were at the glitziest party of the season. “Now, we really must decide on what to do with your hair. I insist that we hire the Empress’s personal hairdresser; he is well worth the price.”

Sera scoffed. “Waste of money. Just give me some shears and let me take a whack at it.”

“I would not trust you with grass,” Vivienne returned, “much less a bride’s hair.”

“Hey,” Sera said indignantly, “I cut my own hair, you know.”

The mage laughed, with no attempt to hide her derision. “Trust me, I know.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Evelyn begged, trying not to sound like she was begging. “Anything else?”

“You really must take this seriously, darling.” Again, Vivienne spoke as if Evelyn had insulted her with her indifference to the topic. It reminded her a little too much of her own mother’s tone when she had done something to displease her, and she didn’t like that one bit. “You have seen the current fashion for wedding dresses in Val Royeaux, of course. A darker bodice and a voluminous, intricately patterned skirt — it would be perfect for drawing attention away from your broad shoulders. If you wait too long, you risk puffed sleeves or something equally horrendous for your figure coming back in vogue.”

Sera snorted. “She’s saying you got man shoulders.”

Evelyn supposed that _was_ what Vivienne was saying, but she didn’t really take it as an insult. At the very least, she decided not to dwell on it to the point where she would convince herself it was insulting. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said curtly, as water squelched in her shoes.

Apparently unable to hold back her irritation anymore, Cassandra grumbled. It was music to Evelyn’s ears — the annoyance she was unable to express expressed by another. “This discussion is ridiculous. And over.”

“Hey, I was wondering,” Sera broke the resulting, unfortunately short-lived silence, and before anyone could stop her, she continued doing so. “Them Chantry mothers tell you not to bump uglies before getting hitched, yeah?”

“If you’re vulgarly referring to what I presume you are, it is certainly a recommendation,” replied Vivienne.

“And General Uptight’s one of them pious types, can’t stand living in sin, ain’t he? So did you tie the knot so he could get into your breeches without pissing off the Maker?”

“Sera!” Evelyn shouted, unable to think of anything else to say in response to such a question, especially one worded in such a way.

“That’s it, innit?” she said with a smirk that showed she was clearly convinced that she had flawlessly solved this great mystery. “I knew it. So was it worth it? He good? It’d be hilarious if you married him for his bits and he didn’t know what to do with ‘em.” So hilarious, apparently, that she burst into laughter at the thought. More and more, Evelyn felt like walking straight into the marsh waters until they were above her head.

“You are speaking to the Inquisitor,” Cassandra scolded, her cheeks tinged with red. Evelyn didn’t know if it was because of anger or embarrassment, though she had a feeling it was a mixture of both. “Watch your tongue.”

“All right, all right, but speaking of tongues. Does he,” Sera interrupted her sentence to make a V-shape with her fingers against her mouth, flicking her tongue through the gap, “your—”

“Camp!” announced Evelyn, clapping her hands together to drown out her companions’ varied reactions to the elf’s gesture. “I can see camp!” And its lights in the distance were like a beacon of the Maker’s salvation to a weary soul. “I’m spent! Doesn’t some rest sound perfect right about now?” She picked up her pace, her socks squishing loudly against her soles with each step.

Evelyn unbuckled and removed her boots, tossed out the water, and barricaded herself in her tent as best as was possible. Setting the boots aside to hopefully dry up a bit before they continued on, she peeled off her sopping wet socks and began to dry off her cold feet. Cullen must have been too occupied to intercede with the Maker on behalf of her footwear, or perhaps this was part of some divine plan that she lacked the wisdom to understand the purpose of. Though, realistically, she had probably just allowed herself to get too distracted by the thought of how much taller and more comical she’d look with the oversized, pomaded hairstyle that Vivienne had been talking about and had veered off the path. But it was less shameful to try to blame it on something else, so she did.

Once the feeling had reasonably returned to her toes, she gathered together a board, paper, ink and a pen to write up a field report to send back to Skyhold. With a yawn, making her realize that she actually was quite tired and hadn’t just feigned exhaustion to cloister herself, set the board against her raised knees and began to record any pertinent details of their activities. Since the task required no elaborate preamble or complex adherence to etiquette, she had finished quite quickly, which was fortunate, since she was already dozing off.

She placed her pen against the bottom of the page, ready to sign her name and sign off from her duties and relax for an hour or so, but she couldn’t stop her mind from returning to Sera’s “not-appropriate-in-polite-company” words. In the time that had passed from the beginning of their marriage ruse, Evelyn had managed to sequester the commonly-accepted but painfully untrue truth about their nightly antics to the outskirts of her conscious mind, where it could not torment her daily. It had helped that the vast majority of her company would not dare bring up the topic as it had just been brought up to her, but Sera’s gesture served as a reminder that it was on people’s minds, even if it was not on their tongues. And it didn’t seem quite fair that everyone else got the privilege of “knowing” that he was bedding her when she couldn’t be afforded the same privilege.

She immediately struck the thought from her mind, scribbled the remainder of her message without thinking much about it, and welcomed the kind oblivion of sleep. But she apparently didn’t have the discipline to strike him from her mind completely, and she wondered what Cullen had been up to since she’d been gone. Whatever it was, she was certain it couldn’t have been as painful as spending so much time with her current companions.

 

Chastity —  whose name was probably actually something other than Chastity, Cullen would realize at some less tumultuous point in the future — began to sway her body to the booming beat of a drum that seemingly came out of nowhere, as if on cue. With her pristine white robes and any pretense of medical knowledge out of the way, she was decked out in a set of elaborate, lacy smallclothes and stockings that Cullen could not discern the specifics of in the moment between being stunned and whipping his head away and throwing his free hand out in front of him, as if shielding himself from a blinding light. Amongst the cheers and the percussion, he was pretty sure he heard someone boo him.

“I should really be going,” Cullen shouted, his ability to care about the volume of his voice long gone. He only managed to rise a few inches above his seat before Bull’s hand squashed him back down, adding a fresh splash of beer to the Commander’s clothes in the process.

“Hey, we can’t throw a party for you if you’re not here!”

That was the idea. Though, really, he didn’t care too much about what his troops did, as long as they behaved themselves well enough, and didn’t involve him. At all. And while Cullen generally had no issue being firm, resolute, he was having difficulty doing so, what with the massive and boisterous crowd, the man twice his side whose resolution was not similarly deficient, and the woman in an increasing state of undress blocking his way — wait, no, at some point two more women had joined Chastity’s festive ranks, and all three were alternating between gyrating, undulating, shimmying and rocking various parts of their bodies, mostly towards him.

“And don’t worry, nobody will tell the boss.” Bull then roared out to the room, “Nobody’s telling his wife, right?”

A resounding, unanimous “No!” dimmed every other sound for an instant, though it failed to reassure Cullen of anything but the swarm of witnesses to this unseemliness. Though, in the midst of it all there was that reminder of his alleged marital status, and a thought emerged.

“Aren’t you supposed to do this before someone gets married?” Cullen half-asked, half-stated, entirely protested.

Bull, in the middle of a long gulp from his mug, shrugged. “Sure, and after the engagement announcement, right?” Cullen couldn’t tell if that was a fair point or not, and as he was mulling it over, Bull suddenly slapped his thigh with his palm and pointed where Cullen had no intention of looking. “Look, Sapphire’s bending over backwards for you!”

Cullen made a noise to acknowledge him, but continued staring down at his mug.

“No, literally. She’s very flexible.”

“No way. Are you _that_ Cullen Rutherford?” a feminine voice from close in front of him asked. “The miller’s son?”

That made his eyes snap up to find the voice’s source, and he was greeted with by two wide blue eyes on an upside-down face. As Bull had promised, she was bent over backwards, rather impressively suspending her body at that odd angle, as if it were a natural state for the human body to be in. The position made it so that her long, brown hair cascaded down to the floor, and her chest, completely bare, was made prominent.

“It _is_ you!” she exclaimed, remaining in place. “Do you remember me? From Honnleath?”

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat, and tried to identify her, focusing even more intently at her face as to not haphazardly see anything else.

“Oh, right.” With a small laugh, she pulled herself back up straight and turned around to face him right-side-up. “What about now?”

He squinted, and saw a flash from his childhood — a brown-haired girl from the farm across the river, making flower crowns with his own sister. “... Noelle?”

A giddy grin crossed her face. “You do remember!” Before he could react, Noelle bounded forward and threw her arms around his neck, leaning down to press herself against him in a hug he would have rather not participated in. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” She took a step back and looked him up and down. “Well, I suppose I’ve seen you once or twice, but not up-close. Wow, it’s good to see you’re doing well.”

“You too,” he returned automatically, unsure.

“You’re shitting me!” Bull guffawed, presumably getting even more fun out of this than he had bargained for.

“And a married man! I can barely believe it!” she gushed, either in some manner of pride or surprise. “Oh, that’s why I’m here, though, huh?” She pointed down. “Do you want a dance?”

He shook his head without delay, but Bull clearly had no intention of letting Noelle or Sapphire or whatever she went by take that for an answer. “He’s just being polite. Cullen, at least let her sit on your lap and catch up on old times with a childhood friend.”

“Childhood friends” was a bit of a stretch, maybe, since he mostly knew Noelle through his sister and by the virtue of the size of their hometown, but the idea itself wasn’t entirely unappealing — if only she had a shirt on and sat across from him instead of on top of him, which she did immediately at Bull’s behest, making him feel like a trapped and helpless animal. Despite his instinct to do so, Cullen’s last experience with shoving a woman off of him gave him second thoughts about repeating the action. Chastity, who seemed just as intrigued by the unfolding events, provided some symmetry to the scene by taking a seat on the Qunari’s sizable thigh. Noelle enthusiastically shared every significant development in her life since Cullen left Honnleath, noting her family’s relocation to Denerim during the Blight, her rather remunerative employment at an establishment called The Pearl (due to the high demand for someone who could, as she put it, “maintain a handstand under pressure,” unfortunately making Cullen picture it against his will), her long journey to Skyhold with to help fill a void among the Inquisition’s ranks, and other details in between and all over the place, intermittently acknowledged by a polite nod on Cullen’s part.

“And do you remember that statue we had in Honnleath? Gone, apparently. Nobody knows what happened to it.” Cullen shrugged in return, as he had no answer that would demystify that. “But what about you? I want to hear every little thing!”

He cleared his throat, considering himself unable to do anything but comply with her request. “Well… I left for the Templar Order at thirteen, became a Templar, left the order a year ago, and came here.”

There was a silence — not from the room, of course, but from Noelle, until she seemed assured that he had no more to say. “That’s all?”

Back to being put on the spot after he thought he had freed himself well enough, Cullen hastily added. “And I eloped with the Herald of Andraste, I suppose.”

“What do you mean, ‘you suppose?’” asked Chastity, her eyebrow quirked up in curiosity in the instant he instinctively looked over at who was talking to him.

“I…” he cleared his throat once more to gain more time, “suppose that’s all there is to tell, I mean.”

“There’s _always_ more to tell,” the Iron Bull insisted, with his hand around Chastity’s petite waist. “So, how is she?”

Considering the question made him call Evelyn’s image to mind. With all the time he spent with her, day after day, night after night, recalling almost perfectly her face and her voice and even the way her clothes felt against his fingertips was an effortless task. “She is… strong, indomitable, determined. Wouldn’t let anything stop her from something she’s committed to. Extraordinary with a blade in hand. Firm in her leadership, but not obstinate.” He thought of that smile she gives him when he kisses her, bright and authentic, and how he reflexively returns it just at the sight of her happiness. He didn’t realize that the mere thought of it curved up the corner of his lips. “Inspires all those who follow her.”

“High praise from the Commander,” Bull commented. “But I guess I wasn’t specific enough. How’s the sex?”

Since he was abstaining from the beer still in his hands, Cullen thankfully had nothing to choke on. He didn’t answer immediately because he was thinking about exactly what he should say. His natural reaction was to note the inappropriate nature of the question and say no more, but he had a strong and sinking feeling that neither Bull nor these women would accept that as an answer. So he raced through the extent of his vocabulary for the first word that would be adequate, which was, funnily enough, “adequate.”

And, from the faces that his company pulled, he instantly regretted his choice.

“That’s… damn, that’s pretty depressing.” Bull took a long swig from his drink, presumably to cope with some expectation that Cullen deftly destroyed. “I’m going to ask you something, and don’t take it as a personal insult, all right?”

He didn’t know where he would go with this, but despite his certainty that it was nowhere he would like to be, Cullen nodded with all due apprehension.

Bull looked straight at Cullen with one of the most serious expressions he had ever seen cross the face of another, and asked, “Can you not get her off?”

“Off of… what, exactly?”

Again, by the general air of disappointment that surrounded him, it was very obvious that he had said something _very_ wrong. Noelle gave him what he assumed would have been a comforting pat on the shoulder in any other context. “You don’t need to be ashamed. Lots of men can’t do it, actually.”

Chastity reached over to pat his other shoulder. “But only because they don’t know how. Don’t think it’s hopeless; you can work on it.”

“Communication is key,” Noelle went on, her voice taking on an encouraging tone. “Ask her what she wants from you, or you won’t know.”

“But asking something so direct can be intimidating. Try asking for feedback — ask her if she likes what you’re doing, if it’s too fast or too slow, tailor it to what _she_ needs.”

“And don’t rush anything. Anticipation can be far more powerful than you think.”

“Unless she wants you to, of course.”

Cullen could not comprehend how he went from busily toiling away at his desk to receiving emotional support and seemingly sound marital advice, to better satisfy Evelyn during sex they weren’t having, from prostitutes hired to celebrate his impending wedding that had already occurred and never actually did and what in the Maker’s name _did_ happen to that statue in Honnleath if really just disappeared? That thing was _massive_.

“And Cullen,” said Bull, demanding his full attention before imparting his own advice. “You know those really friendly pups you have here that would just lick your face like crazy forever if you didn’t stop them?”

A part of his mind convinced him that he was going to advise getting Evelyn a puppy for some reason, and that was the part of his mind that impelled him to say, “Yes?”

“Do that yourself. But between her legs.”

“Commander!”

Only one voice could cut so sharply through the surrounding commotion.

“Seeker!” At first, Cullen was so overjoyed to have such a strong voice of unwavering reason in his presence, then the look of revulsion in Cassandra’s face brutally reminded him why he wanted that reason. “This is _not_ what it looks like.”

“Then I suppose you have a most enlightening explanation for what I see right now.” Her voice stung like acid, and Cullen was in no position to blame her for that.

Cullen was about to explain, or at least try his best to explain, the scene that Cassandra had just walked into, when it hit him. Cassandra was here, in Skyhold. She had returned from the field. She was back too.

“I need to go.” He shoved his mug into Noelle’s hands and leapt out from his seat, so focused on getting out of there that he gave little heed to anyone in his way, or anyone’s words, so he didn’t hear Noelle call out “Let’s do this again sometime!”

 

Huddled in front of the crackling fireplace, Evelyn rubbed her arms to inspire more heat in them. She intended to immediately bury herself between her mattress and her blankets upon her arrival, but she knew that sleep would not hesitate to seize her, and she needed her consciousness for a little longer, at least.

At last, the sound of the chamber door signaled his arrival, and she straightened up to welcome his return — the opposite of what she expected when she arrived back at Skyhold, but it was of little consequence, really. When first she saw Cullen, flustered and catching his breath, she thought little of it, even knowing that all those flights of stairs would never have such an effect on him. To see him again was all that occupied her mind.

“There you are!” she declared, beaming in her approach. “I thought you might have still been at your desk.” Once the gap between them was closed, she threw her arms around his neck, drawing himself into his embrace. She went in for what felt like an ages-overdue kiss, taking a deep breath in anticipation of the impending need for it, but stopped short. Something was off.

“Cullen,” she began, breathing in again to confirm that her senses were not tricking her. “Why do you smell like beer and perfume?”

He averted his eyes from hers, defining the very concept of shame with his expression. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Evelyn took a step back and, with a great unease welling in her, reluctantly asked, “What is it?”

And he told her, piece by piece, weaving together the tale of his night — how he got roped into the tavern under the pretense of martial matters, how the Iron Bull’s enthusiasm had caused him to spill his drink on himself multiple times, how Bull had strong-armed him to stay in his spot, how he had an unexpected reunion with what he could best describe as a childhood acquaintance, and how the whole ordeal mostly revolved around talking to Bull, though of what he would not elaborate. He finished and audibly remembered to catch his breath, but received no reaction or reply to his story. His solitary audience stood there, arms crossed, a look of intense concentration on her freckled face.

“Evelyn?”

She managed to hold that look for a moment longer, but upon opening her mouth to say something, she instantly cracked up into a flurry of laughs. Instead of relieving her of the need to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation, doing so only made it harder to stop, and she just kept going even until her eyes were watering and her cheeks hurt from the childish grin on her face.

“Are… are you all right?” Cullen eventually asked, and he did actually sound genuinely concerned as he said that. In light of that, Evelyn tried to calm herself down. Her success was arguable.

“I-I’m sorry,” she paused to stifle a chuckle before it turns into a howl. “That’s just… it’s such a mean prank to pull on you, but—“ She wanted to tell him it was just too funny, but her ability to speak was taken away once again as she tried to hold her drumming abdomen still with her arms. That might have spoken for her, though.

“It was a _prank_?” She could not see her since her eyes are scrunched closed, but his voice revealed the incredulity that would be painted across his features.

“I’m sure of it. Sera was probably in on it too, somehow.”

He did not seem to find the revelation particularly relieving or funny, given his silence. She used every mote of self-control within her to will herself to a similar silence, and pressed her hand to his warm cheek. “Did you think I would be mad?”

“I thought,” he started, and then paused, still in thought, “it would make you doubt how very serious I am about you.”

She took in his thoughts, and cast them aside with a shake of her head. “It does not. Especially after you spilled your guts like that.” She involuntarily snorts at the thought again. “Sorry, sorry, I’m trying to stop.”

“It’s fine. Seeing you so happy almost makes it worth it. _Almost_.”

And he finally kissed her smiling lips, held her close, and she sunk right into his touch, his warmth, all that she had been missing while she was away. And yet, when they put those few paltry inches between them for air, she couldn’t resist.

“Can I ask you one more thing, Cullen?”

“Anything.”

“What did you talk about?”

He did not reply right away.

“Mabari pups.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 1000 kudos aaaAAAAAAHHH
> 
> Thank you so much. I hope you keep enjoying this. :)

“Our outpost in the Western Approach demands extensive repair and refortification if we have any intention of keeping it under our control.” Cullen set his finger down on the relevant point of the map. “Knight-Captain Rylen lacks the manpower and stone to see the job through.”

Evelyn’s eyes looked over the landscape before her, finding a place to focus her thoughts on. “Our influence over the Exalted Plains is stable enough for the moment. Divert as many of our troops as you see feasible, Commander.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“And what of the stone?” Her fingertip glided across several markers on the map, circling around where Cullen’s still rested. “These are all quarries, are they not?”

“And more than half of them belong to the Royal Antivan Trading Company, through an Orlesian subordinate,” Josephine explained. “Due to our alliance with House Ibarra, we could obtain these materials far below market price, even at what would essentially be a loss for the sellers.”

“But?” said Evelyn. She knew there had to be a “but” for this to be brought up at the war table.

Cullen sighed and pointed at one of the quarries. “Darkspawn.” He pointed at another. “Venatori.” Another. “Varghests.”

“Sounds like a busy afternoon.” She stood up straight, arms akimbo. “I could prepare a team and leave for the Approach by tomorrow.”

“That may not be necessary, Inquisitor,” said Cullen in a firm but still deferential tone. “For what he lacks in builders, Rylen makes up for with a comparatively experienced contingent. I believe he is capable of clearing out the quarries himself, should he be given the order.”

“He would still benefit from my help, would he not?”

“Without a doubt, Inquisitor, although…”

“There’s no need to be so glum, Commander,” said Leliana, eyes practically glimmering. “You’ll be in the company of the Inquisitor again before you know it.”

He turned a neutral, unruffled expression towards her, a look deceived by the red in his face. “That is not the issue here. If Rylen’s men can deal with the problem themselves, the Inquisitor,” he stopped himself and faced Evelyn, then continued, “you would be available should anything urgent arise.”

“Of course,” Leliana replied. Josephine tried to hide an already coy smile by angling her head down somewhat.

Evelyn nodded, concentrating on his point of view as to avoid having her face similarly tinted. “Your objection has its validity, Commander, but I still believe undertaking this myself would be best. I would not want the keep undermanned for any length of time while it is in an already vulnerable state.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” he said without hesitation and without further opposition. “I’ll send word to the Exalted Plains and Griffon Wing Keep and make preparations for your leave at once.”

“One moment, Commander.” Josephine stopped him at the first sign that he was taking his leave. “There is another crucial issue for you — that is, both of you — to deal with.” Though she received no words, upon receiving their combined attention, she continued. “The matter pertains to the wedding gifts you’ve been receiving as of late.”

“Are we to write thank you notes?” Evelyn joked. She caught a hint of Cullen’s laughter from beside her.

Josephine blinked, momentarily stunned before regaining her particular composure. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Etiquette demands that you personally show gratitude to each giver, just as you did in Ser Fermin’s presence. The longer a response is delayed, the more slighted they will be.”

Evelyn winced in defeat, needing no further explanation of the consequences of disregarding the almighty law of upper class etiquette.

“You cannot be serious.” Cullen balked, no longer amused in the slightest. “Do they really think we have time for this?”

“Whether or not you do is irrelevant; if you desire noble support, you must meet their expectations in these matters to the letter, as it were.” Josephine’s tone was absolutely insistent, which made Cullen, though with every drop of reluctance at his disposal visible, accept his fated busywork. “I’ll have the gifts gathered in the Inquisitor’s quarters by this afternoon. So, unless there is anything else to discuss?”

There was not, apparently, so the group filed out of the room and through Josephine’s office. Josephine settled into her seat, as was to be expected, but Evelyn also lingered behind, causing a curious glance from Cullen as he left, but no more. After all, it was not odd for the two to have business together, discussions about noble guests and the such, and he would have been more than happy to leave them to such topics. Evelyn exhaled slowly as the door closed behind him.

“Did you wish to speak with me, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked with impeccable formality, despite their privacy. It pulled Evelyn away from her thoughts for a time and reminding her why she had stayed.

She forced her posture to be straight and tall, lifted up her head, and made every effort to appear confident despite the nerves that were clawing their way out of her from the inside. “May I ask you something, Josephine?” The question was somehow both stiff and shaky at the same time.

“Of course.” She gestured towards the seat opposite hers.

Evelyn took it, relieved to have something to support her shakiness but also intimidated by the concreteness it gave everything. “It’s, um, rather personal.” She cleared her throat. “And I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but given the circumstances…” Her shoulders slacked, admitting defeat even if she did not mean to. “There are not many people I can speak to.”

“I would be happy to assist you in anything I’m able to, Inquisitor.” She leaned forward slightly, one hand atop the other on of her desk, offering her full attention. “Please, go ahead.”

Evelyn sucked in a surplus of air to try and calm herself, and willed her fidgeting hands still in her lap. Her eyes remained focused on those hands as she quietly asked, “What is it like?”

She looked up to see her reaction. Josephine merely raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Inq—“

“Sex,” Evelyn blurted out. She had meant to sound bold and straightforward, but overshot her target and ended up practically shouting it out, startling both herself and Josephine in the process.

Being the skilled diplomat she was, Josephine let the uncomfortable silence linger for only a moment. “W-Well,” she began, with an uncharacteristic stammer, “That is a very… broad question with a myriad of answers.” She made a prim ahem, her interlaced fingers visibly tightening.

“I’m sorry, this is incredibly awkward.” Evelyn stepped up from her chair, knocking it aside somewhat, and bleated a strained laugh. “We can pretend this didn’t happen and never speak of it again.”

“No, no, it’s fine, really,” Josephine urged, motioning for her to stay. “I insist.”

Evelyn hesitated, caught between believing her insistence to be genuine or barrelling out of the room and sparing both of them any further embarrassment. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I do not know how much help I can provide to you, but I can understand that you would have a limited selection of people to discuss such matters of without, well, raising suspicions.”

Josephine had pinpointed the exact conundrum that Evelyn had been rolling over in her head for longer than she would care to admit, causing her more anxiety than she would ever care to share. Asking any such questions, especially the very one she had already asked, would be absolutely damning to the idea of the supposedly passionate relationship that spurred a spontaneous wedding — and everything that it hinged on. So she had her pick of the people who were in on the game: Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine, and the latter, given the light and gossipy side she’d seen a few times before, seemed the least intimidating option of the bunch. There was also Cullen, she guessed, but no. Just no. Even if he could possibly have such answers. No.

Once she slumped back into her seat, Josephine said, as politely and cautiously as Evelyn thought possible, “I suppose I should ask if you are familiar with the… well, mechanics?”

Evelyn guffawed, perhaps a little too defensively. “Of course! Even _I_ know what you put where.” She grimaced in remorse, wondering why she would say that. “Why would I say that?” Her grimace intensified for having thought so aloud.

She made no reaction to Evelyn’s nerves taking over her tongue. “What would you like to know then?”

A silent moment passed before she replied. “Does it hurt?” she compelled herself to ask, her fingernails unconsciously digging into her thigh. “The first time you... ” Since her youth, she’d heard tales that ranged from unpleasant to physically painful to hear, though she always had the suspicion that they were told merely to discourage her from misbehaving and potentially besmirching her family’s name. Even so, she could not simply erase all that she had heard.

The sympathetic look on Josephine’s face hinted that she could determine all that even if it was left unsaid. “It can. It need not be, if you take things slow.” She paused, receiving no reply. “If this is causing you unease, you should talk to Cullen about this.”

Evelyn quickly swallowed the lump in her throat placed by having his name crop up. “I-I could not.”

“You certainly can. He has a great deal of affection for you, and moreover he respects you. Speak your mind as you would in any other situation — he will listen.”

It was a terrifying prospect in itself, but Evelyn had no reason to disagree with Josephine’s assessment. It was also not the only terrifying prospect. “I’m not even sure he would want to… you know.” For how loudly she announced the topic of the discussion at its onset, she sure had trouble even saying it again. She meekly added, “With me.”

“Oh, he certainly does,” she said so as if it were an incontrovertible truth, then covered her mouth, wide-eyed at what she let slip out of it.

“What?”

Josephine gingerly cleared her throat. “It’s no more than an observation, but when you entrench yourself in the Game, it is quite evident when someone is… _inclined_ to another in such a way.” A tinge of pink graced her cheeks. “And he is _quite_ inclined, I assure you.”

So was there a sign around the Commander’s neck that said “I, Cullen Rutherford, would rather fancy getting into the smallclothes of Evelyn Trevelyan” that she had failed to notice? Because that seemed to be the heart of what her ambassador was telling her.

Finally noticing that she was fiddling with and subsequently unraveling her braid,  she got out from her seat. “Thank you for your time, Josephine.”

“Was there nothing more you wanted to ask about?”

“No, I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one morning,” she said, laughing weakly.

Josephine made a quiet sigh of relief at the answer, and picked up her quill to signal her return to her more usual duties. “Very well. Do try to speak to Cullen about this.” She tipped the quill towards Evelyn. “ _After_ you write those thank you letters.”

 

As one of the cornerstones of the Inquisition, Cullen had dedicated himself to performing any and all tasks that were demanded of him — even, unfortunately, those that were almost comical wastes of time. He would admit that being a military commander granted him little to no mastery over Josephine’s area of expertise, and no matter how ridiculous it sounded to him, if the Lady Montilyet told him it was necessary to write thank you notes, his only course of action was to break out the pen and paper. Upon being summoned, he delegated his duties to Cassandra, whose fixed scowl stood in for the thorough chastisement she had in store for his rather damning presence in the tavern. Even if he had had a chance to explain it, he doubted she would find it as hilarious as Evelyn did.

Evelyn was already there when he entered their quarters, which were filled from one side to the other with every gift that could conceivably be forced up the stairs, each with a tag that named its giver. He thought he was aware of the absurd number of presents they’d received on behalf of their little charade, but upon actually seeing it all at once — save for the horses and that shrieking bird strutting around the gardens — and seeing the sheer amount of space it all took up, impressed upon him just how seriously all these nobles were taking this alleged marriage.

“Maker’s breath,” he uttered. “How much could this all have _cost_?”

“It goes against etiquette to ask the price of a gift,” Evelyn explained stiffly. “Though Josephine has made some estimates, if you’re curious.”

“I almost think I’d rather not know.” He sighed. “I suppose we’d best get started, unless we want to stay awake all night.”

She coughed after he finished speaking, then turned to stand directly in front of him, her arms crossed tight over her chest. “Cullen, perhaps I should save this for later, but…”

“What is it?”

Evelyn’s lips pursed and her eyes fluttered around to every sight to see in front of her, although they squarely avoided him. If Cullen had had to compare her to something else, it would have been a quickly fraying rope, on the verge of snapping in twain.

“Evelyn?” he nudged her cautiously with his voice, even as his concern grew with each of her wordless actions. As she continued struggling for her words to emerge, he stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. His fingers grazed just against the hand tensely gripping her arm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

At his touch and his words, her eyes briefly met his, then darted back away. With a smile and a soft laugh, she shook her head and stepped away. “I was just thinking, you know what would make this task a lot more bearable?”

“I cannot imagine what.”

She walked forward and surveyed the cornucopia, her back towards him, when her sight seemed to be caught by one gift in particular. “Cracking open our gift from,” she said, turning to Cullen with a bottle of wine in her hand, pausing to scrutinize its tag, “the Arlessa of Redcliffe.”

Well, it was theirs, after all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To alcohol! The cause of and solution to all of life's problems."

 

The problem of not having wine glasses at hand was a short-lived one. After a cursory scrounging through the mass of gifts, they were able to find not one, but seven pairs of glasses that ranged from plain but elegant to intricately embellished.

“Huh.” Cullen turned one of the pair he just found between his fingers, inspecting its labyrinthine gilding to find a word amongst all the glimmering decoration. “I’ve never seen my name written in gold before.”

Before his eyes, deep red quickly filled the emptiness between the gold, by the generously tilted hand of the Inquisitor. He muttered his thanks, then offered her the matching glass with her own gilded name, which she likewise filled herself. As she did, Cullen took a small sip, and although he lacked the prowess to describe the wine down to every last detail that could be extracted from the sample, as he had seen others do, he could tell it was good. After placing the bottle back on the table, somewhat less gingerly than one probably should with what Cullen assumed was extraordinarily expensive, Evelyn put the glass’s rim to her lips and threw her head back, following the action up with a deep sigh.

“All right, let’s do it.”

They began the chore methodically, starting from the left of the room and going from gift to gift in order of what seemed to be an arbitrarily-chosen arrangement. They gave each item a brief inspection, wrote down what felt like appropriate gratitude, used the giver’s titles respectfully as rank demanded, and added both of their signatures, “Cullen S. Rutherford” being overshadowed, perhaps rightfully in the eyes of the intended recipients, by “Lady Evelyn Lisbeth Trevelyan of Ostwick.” They more-or-less repeated the same action for the first hour or so, repeatedly lauding the use they would get out of something or how lovely something would look on their mantelpiece. All the while, a variety of liquor flowed freely, albeit more swiftly through Evelyn’s glass. It showed.

“Which one do you like better?” she asked, setting down her cup to hold an oversized Orlesian hat in each hand, presenting them both to him.

One was a run-of-the-mill display of wealth — voluminous blue feathers, lace, silken bows — while the other obviously had a lot more effort and thought put into it, even if it would have been better spent elsewhere. It featured meticulously crafted miniatures of what he assumed was themselves, in the embrace of a dance atop a green meadow, the stand-in for Evelyn wearing an embroidered gown with a train that draped over the hat’s edge, while bursts of flowers and other pastoral imagery abounded around them. He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of comment on his background, a conception of the assumed event or merely the hatter’s whimsy, but it was as plausible a take on their wedding as any other, he supposed.

“I can’t say I’m more disposed to either one.”

She looked both of them over once more, then put the simpler one aside and put the other one on top of his head. His first thought was that it was _much_ heavier than he could have anticipated, but he quickly turned to other matters. “Evelyn, what are you—“

“Shh, one moment. Stay still.” With her glass somehow back in her hand without Cullen noticing, she gazed at him, her eyes slowly moving from side to side, up and down, and finally centering again. She sipped at her wine and then nodded in approval. “Stunning. Whoever sent that is getting a heartfelt letter back.”

Ah, so she was joking. Maybe. He couldn’t exactly tell. “So can I take it off?”

“I don’t see why you would ever want to.”

He did, although he waited until her back was turned, as to not disappoint her if she was serious.

Their ordered system swiftly fell apart, as Evelyn began selecting items as they caught her attention. As she was writing what seemed to be an overly long thank you for their golden nug statue, Cullen looked over everything closely, seeing if anything would similarly catch his interest. While most of the luxurious gifts roused some bewilderment in him, they warranted no further inspection for him, until he found a book that appeared like an interloper among everything else. Its title read _Swords and Shields, Volume I, by Varric Tethras_ , with the author’s name signed across the cover in a bold flourish. On a curious whim, having never found the opportunity to read the dwarf’s work before, despite the bind he got him out of before, he opened it up to a page at random.

_“You should know that I have never done anything like this before,” the Knight-Captain whispers, her lip quivering in anticipation for this untrodden world to be opened to her._

_“Neither have I. We’ll take it slow,” the guardsman breathes huskily into her ear. “After all, we have the entire night patrol to ourselves.”_

_Her breath hitches as his sword-roughened hand grazes against the wet heat between her thighs_

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen automatically exclaimed, slamming the book shut and tossing it back onto the table from whence it came.

“Something wrong?” Evelyn asked, turning her head to him. A quick glance at her writing showed that she was still, somehow, thanking the nug’s bestower.

“N-No, nothing. Thought I saw a spider, is all.” Cullen cleared his throat, repeatedly.

She simultaneously raised and eyebrow and grinned. “Cullen, are you afraid of spiders?”

“Of course not.” He would admit that they weren’t a particularly pleasant sight, but that wasn’t an answer to the question at hand, so he kept it to himself.

Her knowing nod convinced him that she was, even tipsy, absolutely unconvinced.

One way or another, despite the monumental task and all the alcohol unwisely mixed into it, the pair had actually managed to write letters to correspond to the majority of the gifts in their room by evening. The chill that followed the sun’s departure made Cullen wrap his cloak around himself, with little regard for how odd it looked without his armour on. Josephine had also provided them with a list of gifts that couldn’t be brought inside, primarily for those who had more closely followed Ser Fermin’s lead and had horses sent to Skyhold. Even though Cullen had finally managed to drink enough to feel its effects, he was more than happy to express his gratitude for something that actually benefited the Inquisition, so his writing was sincere, if not a bit sloppy.

Evelyn, leaning against their desk, possibly for support, had decided to adorn herself in a mishmash of their presents over the course of the undertaking: jewelry of varying types, metals and stones, silken scarves, a fur shawl, along with an Orlesian half-mask of latticed ivory in the shape of a butterfly and the hat that he had involuntarily modeled for her earlier. Notwithstanding how ridiculous she looked, Cullen still found himself lured into long looks in her direction.

He snapped out of one such lasting gaze to direct his attention back to the list. “Next up is the Comtess du Vanier’s gift.” When his eyes turned to the word next to her name, he groaned. “The peacock. What should we write?”

She titled her head to the side, tilting her miniature’s dress along with her, and stood in thought as Cullen readied his paper and ink. “What about… Chère Comtesse, merci beaucoup pour le bel oiseau que vous nous avez envoyé. C’était très délicieux.”

He had written down an “s” before his slightly impaired mental faculties caught up to exactly what his ears heard. “Was that… was that Orlesian?” he asked, bewildered. “Do you speak Orlesian?”

“Fluently, but only when I’ve had enough to drink.” Before setting her glass aside, she capped off the declaration with a very fitting sip, which she nearly gagged on to urgently add, “And don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

Putting his materials aside, he held his fist firm against his heart and lowered his head, unable to hold back a small laugh as he swore, “On my honour, your secret shall remain safe with me, madame.”

She laughed vigorously at his oath, her contentment shining right through the mask. “If you _ever_ call me that again I’ll only speak Orlesian to you as punishment.”

He stepped towards her, smiling. “Not a very well thought-out punishment. It almost sounds pleasant when you speak it.”

“Flatteur,” Evelyn scoffed, needing no translation to be understood.

He relieved her of that huge, bizarre hat and placed it beside her, briefly but assuredly noticing that she had perched herself up on the desk. “There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

Her mask could not obscure the set of eyes so intently focused on him. “What else would you want to know?”

Cullen gladly pulled that mask away from her face, like a veil from a bride, to see her fully: the green in her eyes, the splash of freckles all over her skin, the shapely lips, the coppery tresses straying from her once-taut braid, the way she looks at him that makes him feel like he is her everything.

“Everything.”

It was a cue that neither of them missed; they both leaned towards each other until their lips met. As soon as Cullen put the smallest distance between them, Evelyn yanked him by the shirt, pulling him into another kiss, one unlike any other they had shared. Her tongue slipped between his lips, complementing the taste of wine in his own mouth, for which he could only react in kind. Her hands weaved into his hair, fingers brushing against his nape, feeling about, never settling, endlessly wandering. The same wanderlust claimed him in turn. His arms enclosed her middle, his hands meeting at the small of her back, pressing into her flesh, wrinkling up her shirt, needing to feel _more_ of her. As soon as the impulse hit, he did not hesitate to act, and trailed kisses down to the crook of her neck. He basked in the warmth of her skin, the greedy scrape of her fingernails, the gasp so faint it was just barely there for him to hear. Her head nestled against his shoulder, offering that side of her neck to his lips with every ease.

“I still need to ask you, Cullen,” she mumbled, her words somewhat slurred together and muffled.

“Anything,” he said, forcing himself away for only long enough to utter the word. He awaited her response, and received none. Her ever-wandering hands went still, drooping over his shoulders. “... Evelyn?”

When he moved back, Evelyn slumped forward with his body. With a pang of worry, he looked over at her face, and found it pressed right up against the fur lining of his cloak, her eyes shut and mouth slightly open. Initially at a loss for what to do, he gave her an experimental and ultimately ineffective nudge, which made his course of action clear. Slowly and cautiously, he lifted her off from the desk into his arms. The hand he used to caress her back was instead used to support it, while the other scooped up her legs from the back of her knees. She was heavier than she seemed at a glance, due to all the muscle that her intensive training bestowed her, although Cullen, similarly trained, had no difficulty carrying her. At least, he probably wouldn’t have, if he was sober.

“Shit,” Cullen hissed, ignoring all the propriety he generally reserved for cussing as his foot slammed squarely into the desk’s leg, causing his face to contort in pain and nearly making him trip. He retained his balance, however, apparently through pure willpower. A quick check reassured him that Evelyn was still out cold, oblivious to his clumsiness. With no further major stumbling, he made his way to the bed and set her down. Her limbs were sprawled about in a rather awkward position, but she didn’t really seem to mind. Seeing her like this made sleep seem like the best option for his clouded mind, and he really was set on turning in for the night, but there was one little significant, inelegant obstacle in his way.

Their intimate moment had left him, well, _excited,_ to put it politely.

And while the physical evidence of that excitement had pretty much subsided with Evelyn passing out, the compulsion remained, and Cullen was certain that sleep would not come easy unless he did something about it. Even in her current state, doing so anywhere in Evelyn’s vicinity seemed as unseemly as unseemly could be, so he needed somewhere far away and private. The perfect place struck him after a moment of thought: his old quarters.

So he pulled a blanket over her to keep her warm, voiced an apology for reasons he could not quite determine, and with a destination in mind, began his journey. He was fortunately not so drunk that the stairs down posed a death trap for him, though he relied quite heavily on the railing for his own sense of security. He eventually made it to the main hall, which was as empty as it should have been at that time of night, populated only by guards as they were scheduled. That made the steady sound of clacking heels closing in on him even more ominous.

“How fortuitous that we would cross paths tonight, Comandante,” a familiar accented voice said with her unmistakable self-assured lilt that grated against his ears.

Cullen would have chosen a much stronger word than fortuitous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-chapter PSA: Okay so I didn't realize this during the planning stage because I'm a square who doesn't drink alcohol but you probably shouldn't leave passed out drunk people alone. OH JEEZ this is causing me absurd amounts of anxiety.
> 
> Post-chapter PSA edit: Okay so you've all helped me realize I freaked out too much. OUR LIGHTWEIGHT INQUISITOR DORK WILL BE FINE. The above message is still useful, though.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forget this every time it happens, but being out of school makes me such a lazy slug. Like, seriously. I wish I had a longer chapter to apologize for the wait, but... the slug thing, you know?
> 
> But, really, thank you all so much for all your support. I'll be sure to see this to the end, laziness be damned.

“How unexpected to see you, Lady Ibarra.”

“Please, you may call me Graciela.” She continued to walk beside him, losing none of the poise in her gait even as Cullen tried to walk faster away from her. “You are up awfully late tonight, are you not?”

“I am.”

The answer clearly, though unsurprisingly, divulged an unsatisfactory amount of information surrounding his private affairs. “Trouble sleeping?” She tsk-tsked the notion. “I see our illustrious Lady Herald still thinks herself above seeing to the needs of her husband, or you would be exhausted.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to lure his thoughts away from Evelyn seeing to his uncomfortably current needs. Somehow, the continuous clacking of Graciela’s heels and the sweeping of her satin skirts against the floor did little to stifle his imagination.

“I have… a matter to attend to, Lady Ibarra.”

“Graciela,” she corrected, making a show of flipping her long black locks behind her shoulder. “How diligent you are. It pleases me beyond measure to see a man so _hard_ at work.”

At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, and that she didn’t _really_ emphasize one particular word of that phrase, but he discarded the idea. She almost certainly, purposefully did.

“But do you not think you’ve earned yourself a moment of diversion?”

“That will have to wait until this conflict is resolved.” She did not need to know how many bottles he and the Inquisitor had opened up in the past few hours.

“Very well, Comandante.” Despite her yielding tone, she clearly had not given up on her pursuit, and still followed him. “As it happens, I’ve business with you.”

Cullen considered it more likely that they’d get a wedding gift from Corypheus than Graciela’s business having absolutely anything to do with Inquisition business, least of all military affairs. In any case, picking up his pace meant that he was already at his office door, his intended and quite spoiled haven. Maybe if he bunkered down at his desk and started actually doing some work, while ignoring her advances and his tipsiness and his downright embarrassing need to get out of his breeches, she’d eventually give up and leave him alone.

The probably-not-all-that-great plan immediately fell apart as soon as he opened the door and Graciela, presumably with much faster reaction times at hand, jaunted past him and took a seat opposite of his standing figure, on top of his desk. In the relative darkness of the room, a few flickering candles gave a shimmer to her golden embellishments, and to the border of her hair, making raven black seem a brown sheen. She crossed one leg over the other, hiking up her dress in the process, and rested her hands together on her knee. A crooked smile painted her lips, still as red as they always were. “You should not keep me waiting, Comandante.”

“Lady Ibarra—“

“Graciela.”

“La—“ He held his tongue for a moment. “Please remove yourself from my desk.”

She began to curl a tress around her finger. “Is this not where you put work that needs doing?”

A dull pounding started behind his brow, and while it may not have helped, he doubted that the amount he drank was the culprit. “I’m involved with—“ He caught himself, a little too slowly. “I’m _married._ ”

She laughed softly. “You say that as if I do not know. On the contrary, I follow your marriage with great interest. It is, after all, so very _interesting_.”

His eyebrow hooked up at the statement. “What do you mean by that?”

“My family adored your sonnet. Talked about it endlessly,  you should know,” she began, not answering his question, though he was certain she was creeping towards doing so. “If you had not already won the Herald’s hand with such writing, you could have easily had my silly little cousin.” She freed that well-coiled strand of hair from her finger. “Though I must admit, I do not quite understand all the fuss people make over that dwarf’s work.”

Cullen felt a lump in the pit of his stomach, like a piece of coal had lodged itself there. He assumed that some would be suspicious about his actual role in writing that poem, but he was not prepared for the imprecise precision of her accusation. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He spoke the words with caution, knowing not where they would take him.

“Of course, of course,” she said, nodding. “I suppose you also know nothing about those whores in the tavern while your very dear wife was away. How very kind of the Iron Bull to provide you one for your lap, and how gracious of you to not refuse.”

Well, that was certainly going to come back to him sooner or later, but he thought the consequences had fizzled out when Evelyn brushed the whole thing off — but the way she spoke of it was ominous. He could think of no better way to describe it. “That is not—”

“Oh, I have no intention to pass judgement on you, Comandante. We have gone over this before, have we not? When one field gives you nothing—“

“Why do you keep insisting on that?” Cullen snapped at her, his composure thoroughly worn down, his patience beyond saving.

Graciela did not even flinch at his outburst. She merely continued smiling that painted smile of hers. “I have an eye for such things, remember?Just the way you two act tells me precisely what you deny.” Her smile grew as she savoured her words. “Especially your darling wife asking that ambassador of yours if it would hurt when you took her maidenhead.”

At that, he was silent. It was not so simple to deflect something he was deep in the midst of processing.

“Ah, but that is quite interesting, no?” said Graciela, almost melodiously. “Even I’d have thought she would have at least begrudgingly consummated your so very spontaneous, so very passionate marriage.” She rested her chin on top of her knuckles, tapping her index finger slowly on her cheek, as she looked away, as if in thought. “You know, Comandante, people just might happen to look closely at this lovely union of yours and believe that it is, mmm, cómo se dice…” The tapping ceased, and suddenly bright eyes focused forward on Cullen. “A sham?”

“Ludicrous,” he replied firmly and instantly, despite the blood pulsing in his ears at the sound of her absolutely accurate accusation.

“I agree, of course.” Her calmness, her acting like she was completely innocuous, was grating on Cullen in a way unlike any other. “I merely wonder what conclusion _certain_ parties would come to if they were to be… _made aware_ of these observations.”

And there it was. “So, what, you intend to blackmail us? Do you really believe anyone would believe this nonsense?”

“Do you really want to find out if they would?” Graciela gave him time to answer her barely-veiled threat of a question, then simpered at his silence. “But there is no cause for concern, I assure you. I am more than capable of making certain that nobody is convinced by these trifling details; you need only convince me that I should.” With a hooked finger, she motioned him to come closer. Her legs uncrossed, instead hanging freely from his desk, slightly separated from one another. “And I’ll not let you leave until you do.”

He stared, silent and still, at her softly lit form beckoning for him. Cullen would regret this, he would hate himself for it later, he knew it without a doubt. Really, he hated himself at that very moment for even giving the notion even the smallest amount of consideration. And perhaps he had a little too much alcohol in his blood, and too little blood where it should have been, to think this through, but it seemed like the only way to get out of this. He gulped, feeling the roughness of his overdry throat, and gathered the courage — if it could be given such an honourable title — to close the distance between them, one steady step after another.

“A wise choice.”

He looked down at her in the eye as she spoke, and at that dangerous little smirk as it emptied itself of its words. He bolstered his resolve, knowing that there would be no turning back from this point. But there was a small part of him, one which he thought years of discipline had snuffed out, that was all but beyond caring for what he was about to do. He grabbed her knee, driving it to the side, stepping forward once more to lunge into the space he created between her legs, all in so swift a motion that it made the candlelight flicker. Heaving her into his embrace, one hand in the small of her back, the other keeping him steady against the desk, he dipped her down, kept her hovering in place beneath him, letting her hair cascade down. Graciela let out a quiet gasp — the first loss of composure that Cullen was able to stir out of her, and certainly not to be the last for the night.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding her impeccably shaped nails up and through his golden curls. “You don’t know how you’ve made me burn for you.”

“Graciela…”

How pleased she looked to not have to correct him anymore. “Sí, amor?”

“Your hair’s on fire.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for yet another long wait! But I have reasons! The good reason is I got a job! 
> 
> The bad, terrible, sucky reason is that one of my pets suddenly passed away a few days ago. His name's Timbit, and he's there in my picture. Sorry for putting a bummer right in the notes, but I just wanted you all to know how awesome he was. I'm kinda wavering with how I'm dealing with this at the moment, so I have no idea when the next update will be (but what else is new?).
> 
> With that said, I really hope you enjoy this decently-sized update, and I swear we're almost at a fun part!
> 
> 6/21/2015 - I made some changes to the council meeting scene and the scene right after it to address some concerns brought up in the comments.

The headache registered before the tapping on her shoulder did.

“No, I don’t wanna go to Chantry today,” Evelyn groaned, face more obscured by her pillow than not. When the tapping turned into a gentle, almost wary shake, accompanied by the blur of a woman’s voice, Evelyn flipped over to reinforce her preference for sleep over piety. No longer disturbed, she returned to the warmth of sleep and dreams, letting them wrap over and dull the throb in her brow.

And he was there, with his lips on her neck, meandering along her skin, greedy but giving. The sensation was so vivid, so tangible that she would certainly swear that it was real upon waking. But the dream soon lost its flow and its logic, falling into a haziness that did little to diminish the enjoyment to be had within it. Her back was against the desk, her body taking the weight and warmth of his. Skin against bare skin. Stomach against the wood, body bent over. Legs tangled with his. Clothes somehow on again, only to be ripped to useless shreds. Nails leaving marks. Sheets bunched in fists (sheets? From where? No matter). A sensation, unknown, abstract. Heat and motion. The sound of her name.

And then the buckling of the desk beneath them, sending her and lover alike hurtling to the floor with an intense lash of vertigo.

“Sorry!” Cullen called out, whipping his hand away from Evelyn’s shoulder when she jerked awake. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Mmrn—“ She stopped to spit out the part of her messy braid that had at some point found its way into her mouth. “Are you hurt!?”

“Am I… why would I be hurt?”

“Because you fell off the desk?” Evelyn said as if she shouldn’t have had the need to.

“Uh, I don’t believe I have.”

She rubbed her eyes, smoothed her hair away from in front of her face, and blinked until her vision more-or-less focused on the man standing at her bedside. Realizing where she actually was put the necessary wedge between dream and reality, forcing her to immediately come to terms that she had not actually been in the midst of a overly enthusiastic romp on her desk with the perplexed man in front of her. She cleared her throat, covering her mouth and trying to hide her reddening cheeks in the process. “N-Never mind. What’s going on?”

Cullen crossed his arms and breathed out through his nose audibly. “Josephine called a meeting.”

“Uh-huh?” She waited for him to tell her when, given that it was still dark out — a fact that Evelyn was thankful for, given the effects of however much she drank the night before. When her waiting bore no results, she squinted her eyes in disbelief. “You don’t really mean right now? This early?”

He nodded sheepishly, keeping his view somewhat away from hers.

“Why? What in the Maker’s name happened?”

“I, uh…” His eyes widened somewhat as he trailed off. He shook his head. “That will be discussed plenty at the council. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

She allowed herself a moment to grumble about the injustice of Josephine forcing the Inquisitor’s hungover self to do anything more complex than lie in bed and bemoan the confidence she placed in expensive wines to help move things along in her and Cullen’s relationship. Having done so, she quickly reprimanded her petulance, knowing that there was to be nothing to stand in the way of fulfilling her role in the Inquisition, and dragged her aching, somewhat unsteady body out of bed.

“Get me some water, would you?” she asked as politely as she could manage while her head throbbed, clearly displeased for the rest of her being upright. By the time she finished rubbing her temples to try and soothe the alcohol-deprived beast contained within, Cullen had returned at her side, a tall glass of water at hand.  She accepted it with a small nod, taking a few sips until it had been roughly half-emptied. “Good, nice and cold.” She held it out to Cullen, who took it automatically, without question. “Throw the rest in my face.”

He looked down at the glass, then back at Evelyn’s face, his brow all knitted up. “What?”

“It’ll shock me into functioning for awhile, I swear.”

“I… Why do _I_ have to do it, though?”

“Because I always chicken out at the last second and just kind of spill it on my shirt. Stupid, I know, but just do this for me, all right?” Evelyn closed her eyes and tightened her fists, bracing herself for the torrent, or whatever half a glass of water could be called. When nothing happened, she added, “Just pretend I’m on fire or something.”

Still, nothing happened, and Cullen hadn’t even said anything. She peeked open one eye, catching a glimpse of a face far more aghast than she ever would have expected, right before a splash of water blurred her vision.

 

Josephine didn’t even comment on the Inquisitor’s inexplicably wet hairline when she arrived with Cullen at her side. No, the ambassador was focused on her task, far too focused to concern herself with such irrelevant observations, or so it seemed to Cullen. As he approached the war table, she was rapping her pen rapidly but still rhythmically against her writing board, her lips pursed tight and her nostrils uncharacteristically flared, even the slightest bit. Cullen had assumed he was in trouble when the meeting was called — no, actually, he knew as soon as he ignited that immaculate Antivan coif — but he hadn’t been prepared for how furious Josephine would look, even as subdued as she seemed to an outsider.

He looked over at Evelyn, who seemed just as surprised by Josephine’s character, and the lack of context for the reason also made her look quite confused. He had deflected, or rather he had awkwardly sidestepped, each and every one of her questions regarding why the meeting was taking place. No matter how foolish it was to keep it from her, since she would certainly find out, and soon, he just couldn’t bring himself to tell Evelyn that he had set a woman _on fire_. And while Graciela had dangled the threat of blackmail over him, threatening the already wobbly foundations of their ruse, there was still no reason in all the Maker’s creation to _set her on blighting fire of all the damned things_ — even if the image of that thorn in his side bounding out of his office, screaming what he assumed to be Antivan curses across the battlements like a madwoman until a soldier near a bucket of water thought fast provided him with some small measure of satisfaction. But only a little. An amount so small it could barely be perceived. Close to nothing, really. He’d swear. In any case, he felt no compulsion nor need to share that facet of the incident with her.

“Commander,” said Josephine, holding her pen steady, “do you recall when I asked you to do whatever you could to keep Lady Ibarra content?”

Cullen swore he could feel Evelyn’s eyes on him at the question, but he didn’t dare try to confirm the validity of the feeling. He only nodded his reply.

“And how, exactly,” she continued, her voice building up, “did you interpret that to mean ‘setting her on fire?’”

“You did what?” Evelyn asked sharply, interrupting Cullen’s chance to respond to Josephine.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly do what she wanted!” The volume of his voice ran somewhat out of his control, perhaps out of a need to emphasize the sheer degree to which he could not have made Graciela happy, not in any manner she wanted.

Josephine did not respond immediately, as if to show him sympathy for whatever predicament he had gotten into with Graciela. If so, her sympathy quickly exhausted itself. “But… fire!?”

“It seemed like a sound plan at the time. Granted, I had a bit to drink,” he admitted, reaching to scratch the back of his neck. He snuck a sidelong glance at Evelyn, inadvertently meeting her wide, incredulous eyes. Seeing that stung like a red hot cauter right in his chest. He wondered if he had permanently sullied his character in her eyes, but, almost thankfully, he was not allowed much time to dwell upon it.

“Tell us what happened,” said Leliana, outwardly neither angry nor shocked, though she did sound rather curious to hear the story straight from him.

“She followed me to my office, sat on my desk, and demanded that I”— he faltered —“have sex with her.”

In that instant, he wavered on what words to use. As the circumstances didn’t allow him time for an in-depth evaluation of what would be most appropriate, he quickly settled on what seemed the most direct, the most unembellished. It didn’t seem to make the whole thing feel any less clumsy for him, though. And, upon saying the word, he again found himself looking over at Evelyn, without ever meaning to. This time, however, their gazes did not cross, for her eyes were focused down to the floor, as if trying to avoid his. Cullen noticed her jaw make the slightest motion. Biting down her tongue, perhaps? Why?

“And?” Josephine impatiently nudged him out of his contemplation, as there was still not even a hint of fire in his account.

Cullen cleared his throat. “I noticed a candle still lit on the desk, not far behind her.” He remembered how he saw it the previous night, like a radiant beacon, a sign of freedom and salvation. It didn’t quite retain its glory through the night. “So I approached her, as to make her believe that I intended to—” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “—Do as she wished, and leaned her down far enough so her hair would catch the flame. She fled, and so did I.”

Josephine pinched the bridge of her nose between vise-like fingers. She let go, but held her hand like a set of claws in front of her, like she wanted them to grip something, possibly his throat. “Have you gone mad?” She looked at Evelyn to pinpoint her outrage. “Can you believe this, Inquisitor?”

“Um,” she muttered, the sound practically a peep, then turned to Cullen. “No, I cannot. I am shocked. Just, uh, shocked at your behaviour.” She was attempting to match Josephine’s scandalized tone, and floundering quite fantastically — her intonations inconsistent, her face unsure of what expression to make in light of his actions, a little mirthful smirk forsaking any supposed fury towards him. “By the Maker, Cullen, I hope you feel awful.”

“I assure you, I do.” Though, in truth, he wasn’t sure if he should feel more or less awful that both he and Evelyn seemed at least an inkling okay with his setting Graciela Ibarra on fire.

“You should feel more than awful,” Josephine chided. “Unless you believe her father, our valued ally and one of our most crucial means of seeing this Inquisition funded and supplied, I might add, would be happy to hear about this?”

“I am fully aware of the consequences, Ambassador,” said Cullen. “And I take full responsibility for them.”

“Does that include explaining to Ser Fermin why his daughter was in a position to catch fire in your office in the first place?”

“We’ll come up with something — bending over too far to look at a map, leaning against the table to talk to someone,” he rattled off some offhand possibilities, assured that his company could come up with better. “But look, do you really think she would tell her father what she was really doing?”

Josephine had nothing to sling right back at that, and neither did Leliana nor Evelyn. With a thoughtful head tilt, and still with a reluctance to do so, admitted, “I suppose you may have a point.”

“Why didn’t you just leave?” Leliana asked, drawing everyone’s attention towards her, and a set or two of raised brows. “It is no trick question, Commander. When she made her demand, why didn’t you simply turn around and leave the room?”

Right. It wasn’t that Cullen had forgotten the rather critical answer to such a question, more like it had been buried beneath what seemed to hold greater importance. Now that the matter of Graciela’s incendiary hair had at least been glossed over, her incendiary remarks surged back into his thoughts, as ominous there as they were between her ruby red lips.

“She knows we’re not really married,” said Cullen. “Or she’s very convinced that we are. And she threatened to expose us.”

Any lingering anger fled from their ambassador in that instant, replaced by a stark, thin-lipped dread. “How could she… what did she say?”

“She just pointed out the oddities. She knows Varric wrote my poem, and about Iron Bull’s party, that Evelyn and I have not—“ He caught himself, like an animal charging towards an unseen cliff, frantically mauling its hooves into the dirt to keep itself from plummeting to its death. He calmly continued, “That the Inquisitor and I have not wed, and she is not wrong.”

“That is hardly enough to prove anything.” Leliana crossed her arms. “By that logic, I could say that any of the married soldiers at the tavern that night who can’t write a poem is in sham marriage.”

He felt no need to defend her accusations against his poetry. “It was a threat, and I reacted.”

“With fire,” Josephine huffed.

Cullen came close to sighing for being reminded once again, but resisted, knowing he really had no right to grumble about this. He threw this mess right in Josephine’s lap, he knew. “I never said I reacted well.”

“Well enough,” Evelyn muttered. Upon realizing that she had gained everyone’s attention with the remark, she shook her head dismissively and stammered, “So are we finished here? Could… could I go back to bed?”

“Are you forgetting something, Inquisitor?” asked Leliana. Given Evelyn’s lack of an answer, the question clearly did little to help her remember. “The Western Approach?”

Cullen watched the blank stare wash over Evelyn’s face, and the first traces of painful realization get covered by her hand. “Right, the quarries and the… right.”

“I’ll brief you on the reconnaissance we’ve received this morning.” Leliana held her hand out towards the door, signalling for the Inquisitor to follow. Evelyn swallowed her reluctance in favour of duty once more and joined her, gaining a sympathetic look from Cullen. Before she left, Leliana placed her hand lightly on Cullen’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. It did little to diminish the concerned wrinkle in Leliana’s brow, but she nodded back all the same, and gave him a small pat before leaving with Evelyn in tow.

Once they had left, he followed behind Josephine at a judicious distance. He reviewed the meeting in his head, inwardly cringing at how close he came to blurting out far too much about his and Evelyn’s private affairs. He was no expert in the matter, nor would he ever profess to be, but he could at least assume that divulging to an audience of any size that they had not done the deed would pretty much keep it undone forever. Then, as the ambassador settled in at her desk, he stopped and considered; Graciela’s accusation was true, of course, whether or not she really had the “eye” she claimed for such information, but that was not the only source she acknowledged, no.

“Do you need something, Commander?” Josephine asked, her tone curt. She did not even look up from her writing to ask the question, already having immersed herself in what seemed to be a stack of letters in need of reply.

Perhaps it was improper to even consider broaching the subject — no, it almost certainly was — but the question gnawed at him like a hound at a bone.

“Josephine.” He eschewed titles. This was not a formal matter. Or was it? In any case, he effectively and assuredly took any formality away from it. “Has Evelyn spoken with you lately?”

He saw it, if only for an instant so ephemeral that he would have missed it with an ill-timed blink. Her quill scratched against the parchment a little more roughly, her brow twinged just the slightest bit, her lip stiffened before vanishing back into neutrality. If nothing else, it was a reaction.

“The Inquisitor speaks to me all the time,” Josephine replied, with the ghost of a stutter hovering over her answer. And, for one as refined and educated as Lady Montilyet, a tiny stammer was as prominent as falling flat on your face for any other. “It is an absolute necessity for the Inquisition’s diplomatic affairs, as you should be aware.”

“Have you spoken of non-diplomatic matters, then?” He was prying, definitely, and feeling pretty indecent for it, but Josephine was panicking, losing her ability to make it seem that she was not, and he knew it. He also knew that just a little more prodding would give him a firm answer, whether it was direct or, far more likely, not.

“Why would we not?” She was defensive, her voice and gestures armoured all alike. “I count her among my most trusted friends.”

“So you have?”

Josephine fidgeted with her pen, fiddling with the loosened bristles by its shaft with restless fingers. “Shouldn’t you be making preparations for the Inquisitor’s departure?”

She wouldn’t answer the question, wouldn’t even try to counter it, and that was all he needed. “I should. Good day, ambassador.” He cleared his throat. “And… sorry. Again.”

Her mouth shrunk, making no sound. She shook her head. “No, you needn’t apologize.” Upon seeing a raised eyebrow as Cullen’s only response, she continued, “You did what you needed to get out of a trying circumstance.” She looked down, shamefaced, before making eye contact again to say, “I… pray you’ll forgive me for the way I reacted, Cullen.”

“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate; her sincerity was plain on her face, her regret threaded into her voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Better than Graciela’s hair, certainly.”

Josephine sighed, weary. “To the Void with Graciela’s hair.”

  
Cullen left Josephine to her work, more than ready to return to his. Having done his meddling, a sizable dose of guilt to gnawed at him in place of curiosity, but it wasn’t until he got back to his work that it all really hit him. He was in the middle of wrangling a retinue to accompany the Inquisitor when Graciela’s words came back to him. If she spoke the truth beyond what Cullen could already confirm, Evelyn didn’t just talk to Josephine, she asked her if it would hurt. Maybe he had no reason to believe Graciela, and he tried to convince himself of that to distract himself from the matter, but the more he tried to convince himself the less convincing it seemed. While he was going over the mission’s provisions, he got caught up with the idea that it was just such an odd way to bring it up, and why would she phrase it in such a way unless she had reason to?

Then it actually hit him, the full weight of his guilt with the realization of its foundations, beyond his prying, beyond knowing more than Evelyn had elected to share with him, though that wasn’t erased. It hit him that she hadn’t asked if losing her virginity would hurt, not really, no, not even if those were her exact words — she asked if him _taking_ it would hurt, if _he_ would hurt her. And he didn’t know if it was worse that he really didn’t know the answer or if he had never even considered the question. As time had passed and their relationship had inched closer to the bed, at least as best as he could tell, Cullen had instead ensnared himself in other concerns. Now this was another one, and as it was hers, it took precedence before all others, became a sort of a responsibility, became something that needed to be addressed.

He was crossing through the blustery battlements to his office, arms full of rolled-up requisitions and the such, when he came to a decision: as soon as it was possible, he and Evelyn would need to talk about this — no more dancing around or shying away from it, just a frank and and honest discussion about… well, you know. No need for more detail than that. Not yet, at least. Cullen silently thanked the Maker that the Inquisitor was on the brink of being away for a week or two, time enough to think this whole matter over, devise a strategy, come up with what to say, and, most importantly, gather up the nerve to go through with it. Bless those overrun quarries.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and the air did likewise, blowing one of his parchments out of his arms and down to stone. As he was juggling around what remained in his hands to be able to pick it up, from outside of his peripheral vision, someone placed the fallen paper back on top of his pile.

“Thank you,” he began, turning to his impromptu helper. He immediately wished he hadn’t, as was evidenced by a sudden, full-body jerk that made him drop every last piece of paper in his hands.

“Clumsy,” Graciela rebuked, though without a hint of seriousness in her voice. Her once-flowing locks had been chopped down to reach just at her shoulders, but it was clear _and_ bewildering that it had spent ample time in the hands of an experienced coiffeur. “I am beginning to suspect that you’ve allotted all of your finesse to the field.”

“Lady Ibarra” was all Cullen said as he stooped down, intent on gathering his documents and getting out of there as soon as possible. But, of course, Graciela refused to be ignored. She crouched down to help or look like she was helping him, positioning herself, as seemed to be her custom, uncomfortably close.

Graciela picked up a sheet warily , presumably to avoid scraping her nails against the stone, in the same time that Cullen wrangled about a dozen.  Leaning in close to his ear, she whispered, “I very much anticipate the continuation of last night, Comandante.”

She could _not_ have been serious. “You _can’t_ be serious,” said Cullen, his voice booming over Graciela’s whisper in his alarm, before he hushed himself. “After what I… with the candle, and—“

“You think I am cross with you?”

His eyes caught another glimpse of her hair before bolting back to the floor. “I would very much think that.”

She huffed a low laugh. “Not at all. Such things are apt to happen in the throes of passion.”

Whatever it was that she really wanted, Cullen had rarely encountered a foe with such a vehement sense of perseverance. He felt like he was trying to use a wooden sword to fight back against a reinforced wall. A wall that was _extremely_ insistent on sleeping with him, moreover.

Having collected everything there was to collect, Cullen stood back up, and Graciela followed suit, her one and only proof of having assisted him held carelessly in one hand. “So, I will see you tonight, then.” Her sentence lacked any of the inflection that would render it a question. “And with the absence of , perhaps we can assure that your marriage bed sees some use for once, no?” She made a sweet little giggle that steamed with venom as she held out the document to him. “Hasta la noche, Comandante mío.”

A gust of wind caught the paper before he could, sending it drifting over and across Skyhold’s interior as it pleased. As Cullen watched it fly away, and as he was caught between the potential headache that losing that requisition might have caused and the guaranteed headache that Graciela was already causing, a coppery shimmer in the distance grabbed his attention — the Inquisitor’s hair. Evelyn was in front of the stables, saddling the horse that would take her all the way to the Western Approach, miles upon miles away from Skyhold and the frozen clime of the Frostback Mountains.

And far away from Graciela.

“Actually, Lady Ibarra,” said Cullen, loudly enough to be sure to stop her from walking away. “I’ll be with my wife tonight.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, everyone! :)
> 
> It's been a busy few weeks for me, and my mood is still up and down, but things are getting better. I was planning (and hoping) to get some bigger updates out, but that just doesn't seem manageable right now. Still, I hope you enjoy this little update.

Despite the dangers it presented, Evelyn always looked forward to heading out to the field for Inquisition duty. It was a guaranteed and very welcome change of pace from the generally more diplomatic and subtle tasks that Skyhold itself offered. She savoured breaking bread and hearing tales around the campfire with her companions and soldiers, people who may have called her Herald and Inquisitor but still received her among them warmly and without reservation. Along with the actual work involved, it was the antithesis to the ruthless courtly world, where even her upbringing and years of schooling could not quite prepare her for the all of its demands and perils. And, in contrast to dealing with haughty nobles and underhanded dignitaries, Evelyn was actually had skill with a sword, and plenty of it, as a result of spending the bulk of her adolescence in the training grounds instead of the parlour.

After she had sufficiently dealt with her regrettable hangover, she had nothing but anticipation for the weeks ahead of her: riding across the stunning landscapes of Thedas, listening to Varric tell a tale only the way Varric could, enjoying some of Bull’s racy stories far away from prying and proper ears, doing some good, straightforward work for the Inquisition, and also taking the opportunity to work out some specific frustrations in her tent, after nightfall, alone. Above all, she thanked the Maker for a chance to distance herself from Cullen and her humiliatingly botched attempt to spark a discussion about the next step in their relationship. As she envisioned it, when she returned to Skyhold and retired to her quarters for the night, she’d be ready for that discussion, and more than ready for what would follow, and she would be brimming with confidence, and it would be _extraordinary_ like all those deflowering scenes in the books she kept buried in the bottom of her smallclothes drawer. Of this, for a time, Evelyn Trevelyan was more confident than she was in her talent in battle.

So she really felt the punch to her gut when the Commander caught up to her party not long after their departure, telling them that he was coming along on the mission.

“Couldn’t stay away from her, huh?” said Bull to Cullen, riding at his side. Although he asked it without a hint of amusement, Evelyn could tell how much he enjoyed pestering the poor, inexplicably present man with so little effort.

"I am here on Inquisition business. Griffon Wing Keep is under my direct command. It is fitting that I see to its matters directly," Cullen replied clearly, if not a tad too hastily, making him sound more defensive than he probably intended to.

“Hey, no judgement here — the heart wants what it wants,” said Bull. “Besides, you tagging along is a guaranteed morale booster, especially for some in particular. Isn’t that right, boss?

“Right,” Evelyn forced herself to say, despite her suddenly parched throat. Turned out it took just as little effort to fluster her, something she really should have been aware of sooner, and something that Bull also took advantage of repeatedly during the ride.

Cullen remained quiet, keeping his eyes steady on the path ahead. And that’s how he stayed for the better part of the day’s journey, keeping to himself, focusing on the trail, refuting Bull’s and more often Varric’s quips and commentary with a decidedly stark devotion to his work. The behaviour clearly had its appeal, its main perk being pretending that there was nothing awkward hanging over them, so Evelyn followed suit. Still, her eyes anxiously took note of the sun’s position as the hours passed, reminding her that dusk was creeping ever closer to put an end to the day’s progress, to inevitably leave nothing but her, Cullen, and a tent.

They rode more or less steadily until they finally left the Frostback Mountains and headed into a sparse forest, soon reaching the mild river that was ordinarily, though not always, considered to run along the border between Ferelden and Orlais. As always, whether out of necessity or just plain habit by this point, the whole group dismounted to water their mounts, get some food in their bellies, and give their own backsides some precious time out of the saddle. In a mere matter of moments, everyone in the party dispersed uncannily away from their Inquisitor and Commander, as if there was a ward set around them, repelling all but them and their horses. At first, Evelyn was relieved to be free of the intermittent, sly jabs at Cullen’s “real” reason for coming along, but something out of that persisted nonetheless; namely, what _was_ he doing here? The reasons he repeatedly gave his tormentors made sense enough, sure, but not when she remembered that suggested that _she_ didn’t even need to go deal with this personally. If there was some change in Griffon Wing Keep’s situation that affected his appraisal of the threat, he doubtlessly would have brought it up to her by now, so that couldn’t have been the reason. With no other explanation coming to mind, she pondered that her companions’ jokes could have had some truth to them — his true motive mired in the fact that he could no longer bear to delay bedding her, even if that meant having to take her on a bedroll on Orlesian dirt and grass. She felt her face set aflame for even _considering_ something so ludicrous, the heat further stoked for fancying the idea for a second.

“So,” said Evelyn casually, solely to break the silence that she had made infinitely more uncomfortable for herself with her own thoughts. And, as a result, she hadn’t actually come up with anything to say.

“What is it?” asked Cullen, looking over at her by his side. He dropped the blunt, defensive tone he had armed himself with throughout the whole of the Frostbacks, but he still sounded guarded.

She grasped at her horse’s reins like she grasped for anything to answer that with. “Not very cloudy today, is it?”

The weather? She was speaking to man she’s held and kissed multiple times a day for no paltry length of time, someone whose mouth she was mostly sure she put her tongue in not even twelve hours ago, and she was talking about the _weather_?

Cullen shook his head. “Practically clear.” He sniffed once. “Will probably be perfect for riding all day.”

Oh, how glad she was that nobody was there to warp that little statement into something terrible. Then again, she had pretty much already done that herself, right then. But this was foolish, and Evelyn refused to make a fool of herself over this any further. She didn't need alcohol or an intricately devised plan to tackle this problem. Maker's breath, it wasn't even a problem, it was a discussion that any mature and sensible adult should be able to have without issue, is it not? And, being the mature and sensible adult she was, she was going to make certain this was discussed, and discussed _now_.

“Cullen, do you think—“

“We should talk about—“

The two stared at each other, wide eyed and dumbstruck at their overlapping words.

Evelyn coughed. "You were saying?"

"N-No, you go first. I insist."

"No, please, go ahead."

"I interrupted you."

"Nonsense, I interrupted _you_."

Maybe she sounded convincing enough, or maybe just desperate enough, to make Cullen not parry back her words. Instead, he paused to take a breath that shifted his chest forward. “All right.” He cleared his throat, and his hand found its way to his neck, seemingly without his knowledge. “Evelyn, I don’t know if… I-I mean, I’d like to, but, uh, maybe, i-if you wanted to, we could, ah…” His words degraded into mumbling.

“What could we do, Cullen?” she managed to ask, even with her throbbing heart caught in her throat, making it hard to breathe, to think — but this was it, she knew it. _This was it_.

“Take the inland route instead of the coastal one,” he said, finally. “While the terrain initially presents disadvantages, it should be more efficient overall, especially with a group of this size.”

Evelyn had no idea how long her confusion rendered her speechless.

“Is that all right?” Cullen asked, startling her back into awareness.

“Of course,” she squeaked. She pat just above her collarbone a few times, to urge her heart or whatever that lump there was back to its proper place, returning her voice to its proper timbre, more or less. “Of course.”

“You, uh… you had something you wanted to say?”

“R-Right, I, um, was going to suggest the same thing, actually. The terrain and efficiency and, uh, so on…” Evelyn’s hands made ambiguous gestures throughout the reply, without her realizing that she was still holding reins, at one point necessitating an apologetic stroke against her mount’s neck.

“That’s good.” His voice seemed torn between contentment with the change of course and wariness over this whole flop of an exchange. “I’ll let the others know right away.”

Giving Evelyn a nod with transient eye contact, Cullen walked away, mount at his side, following the river to where the bulk of their party had congregated away from the two. She sighed, at first finding some respite in his absence, to have a moment alone after a taxing morning, but the feeling was fleeting. In its stead, her stomach twisted and tightened up at her bumbling incompetence. She couldn’t help but cringe at yet another fiercely failed attempt — how could something that really seemed so simple _possibly_ be so difficult? Andraste’s mercy, what would Cullen think if he knew she was fretting over this like an anxious little girl who’s been caught in a lie? How would he react to how damned foolish she was being?

Evelyn allowed herself a moment to imagine herself getting down on all fours, dunking her head up to the neck in the water, and screaming her lungs completely empty. And, after said moment had passed, even after its embarrassment had not, she tugged at her horse’s reins, leading the mare back to the rest of the unit. There was still much distance to be covered before sundown and camp, and she didn’t know if she should be thankful for that or not.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for everyone's support. Chapter 20! This one was mostly hurriedly scribbled down over the course of my daily 15-minute breaks, because apparently I spend most of my time at work thinking about being a terrible god to fanfiction characters. Don't tell my supervisor.
> 
> Also worth mentioning for fun, as of tomorrow I will have been (not fake) married for four years to the man who actually got me into Dragon Age, and is therefore directly responsible for my obsession with fictional blonde kinda Templars. Thanks, jerk.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Effective troop mobility? Cullen had been on the verge of asking her, of sparing her the need to do so herself, to take initiative when the opportunity unabashedly presented itself, to do this right and get it over with, but _no_ — he asked her about _effective troop mobility_ instead.

Maybe he should have opted for that Templar vow of chastity all those years ago. It would have nipped this whole debacle in the bud long before it had a chance to wrap its overgrown vines around his neck. In any case, any fleeting comfort to be scrounged up from that hypothetical was quickly transformed into uneasiness, because he figured his recent distance from the Order would tempt him away from that vow anyway. Then the uneasiness turned to pure shame when he realized she was _certainly_ worth breaking hallowed vows over — Maker preserve him.

And yet he just couldn’t seem to pose the question to her, even with no threat of sacrilege held over him. How could something that really seemed so simple _possibly_ be so difficult?

He had plenty of time to consider that, whether he wanted to or not, as the party journeyed down the road he had set them upon in his panic. And despite the reason _why_ they headed away from the coast, his scouts’ reports proved true, and the forested path through the Dales seemed a fine enough route for their rather meagre retinue; the less-trodden and therefore less-maintained road would only hinder an army-sized group on its march. By the time the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, giving off a marigold glow that filtered through the foliage overhead, they had covered more than enough ground to reach their destination as planned. The fact pleased the Commander, made him eager to reward the party with dinner and a decent night’s rest, but still — he’d rather they could all just keep on riding.

After finding a suitable clearing to set up camp, Cullen dismounted from his horse. He stood still, giving himself a moment to regain the feeling in his feet, as numb as he would have expected them to be after so many hours in the stirrups. Evelyn, however, did not, and when she soon fell victim to a slightly raised root that blended in so well with its surroundings that it would that would make any spy seethe with envy, she lacked the control to balance herself against it. Instead, she fell forward with a wet thump as her torso collided with the moist soil and leaves beneath her.

“Are you all right?” asked Cullen, cautiously stepping to her side, avoiding the obstacle in the ground that he had been made very well aware of. He had much more concern in his voice than was probably warranted – she'd been through worse than this little tumble, that was for sure – but he had trouble keeping himself in check if there was any possibility of her being hurt.

“I'm fine,” Evelyn replied with a small groan, getting up onto her elbows. Cullen braced his arms around her and helped her back up to her feet. Her chainmail hauberk, shiny and immaculate in but a moment past, along with her leather sleeves and trousers, were smeared with mud and stained with grass, some of which Cullen got on his gloves as he assisted her. The rest of her wasn't spared either; her palms, hair, and face were all muddied to some degree, though moreso on her right side, where she twisted away to at least save herself from a direct face-full of dirt. “Just filthy,” she added, accurately, with a sheepish chuckle. “Maker, I must look terrible.”

“No, not at all,” Cullen insisted. ”As long as you're not hurt.” He tried wiping away the smudge on her cheek with his thumb, but only managed, to his dismay, to spread it further and rub it in deeper.

Evelyn smiled, unaware of how badly he blundered the gesture. Even knowing so himself, and despite everything else about that moment and that day, her smile was just as contagious as ever.

A cluster of metallic clangs brought them both back to reality. A bunch of tent poles had been tossed onto the ground beside them by the Iron Bull, who was holding a sizable bundle of them over his shoulder. “All yours, lovebirds.”

The two, looking down at the skeleton of their very close quarters, exhaled sharply in tandem.

After removing his cumbersome armour, Cullen opted to take care of the tent's assembly, which felt somewhat like digging his own grave. There would be no uncomfortably small sofa to retreat to, only enough space for two bodies and not much else. Still, it was refreshing work, something he had not done in awhile given his more recent duties, and he was pleased to see that he still had a knack for hands-on work. He had lost track of Evelyn at that time, but hadn't thought upon it much, chalking up her apparent absence to normal camp bustle, even in such a relatively small camp. It wasn't until the comforting aroma of a hearty stew drifted all about camp, and all that was present of her was her armour, neatly placed on a square of canvas alongside his, that his thoughts moved beyond a passing curiosity.

“Where is the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked the group settled around the bubbling stew pot. Bull and Varric were seated among them, maintaining their respective weapons in their respective ways.

Varric rested Bianca on his lap and pointed behind him with his thumb. “Freckles went off that way. Awhile ago, too.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

Most of the group shrugged, or muttered answers that provided him with no helpful information.

“Nobody thought to ask her why she was leaving camp?”

Bull continued wiping down the blades of his axe with an oiled cloth as he said, “Isn't it your job to keep tabs on your wife?”

“She's not my _property._ ”

“Good attitude, but isn't she?” He turned to Varric. “How's it work here? Legally, I mean.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Don't ask me, I'm not from around here.”

The Iron Bull struck the top of his thigh a few times, obviously eager for his turn to speak again. “Reminds me. This one time, the Chargers got hired to escort this Orlesian lord's wife all the way to Nevarra, but not just to keep her from getting herself killed on the road – he wanted us to ensure he wasn't cuckolded.”

Varric chuckled. “And how'd that end up going?”

“Came to see me _every_ night of the trip. Lord ended up paying us double for the job well done, too.”

Cullen realized that he had absolutely no idea why he was still listening to this, and thus he departed, heading among the trees and brush that he was pointed towards. He instilled each step with caution and haste alike, nimbly avoiding each significant rock, log and creeping root that littered his path forward. He began to wonder if Varric's vague gesture was enough to actually lead him to Evelyn, until he got past the throng of trees, stepping over one last enormous root, and found himself at the shore of a wide, rippling river. And in it was a mass of sleek red hair, weighed down by its dampness but unbraided, absolutely free. He was still for that moment, so unexpectedly captivated by the thought that he had never seen her without her braid, not once, that he couldn't piece the puzzle together himself – until until there was no more puzzle to solve.

Evelyn reached behind herself with one freckled arm and draped her hair over her shoulder, away from her back. Her bare back. Her bare, wet back. And below that bare, wet, absolutely unclothed back–

Commander Cullen, well-versed in keeping his cool in the event of an ambush, stumbled back, got his foot caught against that previously avoided root, and fell flat on his ass with a loud thump.

In a calmer moment, with time and context for restrospection, Cullen would reason that he and the Inquisitor could not possibly be as clumsy as this day would otherwise suggest; they wouldn't still be alive in the positions they've held if that were the case, after all. But, in that flicker of time, he wondered how in the name of all that was sacred either of them survived with sharp objects so often in their possession.

“Cullen?” she called, confused, from the distance between them. At the sound of his name, he instinctively looked towards the sound's source. Then, realizing yet another grave error on his part, whirled his neck to the side faster than he ever had in his entire life.

“Sorry!” Cullen cried out. “Sorry, I did not intend to–“ His words stopped suddenly when he tried to stand back up. As soon as he put some weight on his one foot, he hissed through his teeth. The twinge in his ankle turned to a sharp, throbbing pain that sent him back down into the dirt. He had sprained his ankle. _He had sprained his blighted ankle._

There was a robust, harried series of splashes, followed by some loud, squishy footsteps closing in on him. It was then, over in the direction that he had turned, that he had noticed a pair of smallclothes hanging from a low branch. He diverted his view, once again, choosing to look down at himself, assuming there should at least be nothing there that he shouldn't have been seeing.

“Hold on, hold on,” Evelyn implored, an apologetic tone in her voice, as she, presumably, dressed herself. “Are you all right?”

“Just twisted my ankle,” he admitted, trying to downplay it but feeling the most ridiculous yet for having to have said it aloud. This was a strange, not truly catastrophic but still terrible nightmare.

“Did... did you really–“ She stopped, and gasped. “Oh no, oh no, no, no.”

“What is it?”

“My clothes.”

“Your clothes?”

“I was washing them off, a-and me, but – they were in the river... or they _are_ in the river. Downriver.” She grumbled in plain discomfort, and swore beneath her breath.

Hopefully this whole event would manage to stay out of the annals of Inquisition history.

“Maker's mercy, I can't go back to camp like _this_ ,” said Evelyn. Cullen assumed she was fidgeting in the way she always did when she was distressed, but he could only assume. Again, eyes straight down.

Knowing it was the only option at hand, save for crafting a set of clothes out of nature's generous bounty of leaves and bark around them, Cullen pulled his shirt over his head and held it out in the direction her voice came from. “Take it.”

She did, eventually, her still-damp hand brushing against his in the process. A short time later, she said, “All right, you can look now.”

Cullen did. The first thing he saw was her hand, outstretched and offered to him. And then her torso covered by his shirt, oversized on her but doing its job well enough. And then her long, muscular legs, covered only by her boots and her smalls. He did not spend much time looking over these three sights (or so he earnestly hoped), but the little time he did was definitely not divvied up equally.

Focusing on keeping his eyes up now instead of down, he accepted Evelyn's help, fumbling his way up onto his uninjured foot, keeping the other lifted up slightly behind him. She clasped her arm around him to give him support, then put her other hand on his bare side, pulled it back quickly as it were a mistake, then put it back. He put his arm around her shoulder, feeling as steady as he probably possibly could, and he hobbled back to camp with her help, hopping as briskly as he was able.

Cullen spent some of this time considering if this would be the closest and most naked they would ever be together.

As could be expected, the return trip to camp took longer than its opposite. When they finally reached the edge of their campsite, the glow of the fire beneath the cast iron pot greeted them with the shadowed backs of Varric and the Iron Bull, speaking with each other, as could be deduced, between spoonfuls of stew.

Evelyn tapped his side. When he looked over at her face, noting how red it had become, she pressed her outstetched middle finger to her lips, then pointed over to the side. He understood, and they both stepped softly in that direction. However, they both came to realize that it was a challenge to so do when your only means of locomotion is hopping around, when a loud crack of a twig beneath Cullen's boot pierced the air.

He recalled a time when he was five, maybe six, and his mother had set a loaf of bread, filled with walnuts and cranberries and apples and every other delicious thing he could imagine. She forbade him from eating even a crumb of it, as it was a gift for their neighbours. So he defied her and snatched it from the windowsill, leaving the kitchen his mother was still in without leaving a trace – until a creaky floorboard swiftly ended what may have been a long and lucrative life as an unseen rouge.

Cullen soon got over getting sent to his room without supper that night. But, with those eyes glued on him and Evelyn in their complementary states of undress, he did not expect himself to get over this as easily.

“As you were,” Evelyn ordered, her voice just steady enough to have it come off an as order.

“Sure thing, boss,” said Bull. He still watched them with an intent curiosity, though. “Can I ask only one–“

“Absolutely not.”

“Just an author's curiosity–“

“No, Varric.”

And with that exchange snuffed out on Evelyn's terms, she continued to lead Cullen to their tent. She helped him in, helped him down, and slipped out, saying she'd be right back. For as much as he was hoping to avoid ending up in this very spot at the end of the day, it felt like, well, a shelter – in every sense, as if somehow a bunch of poles and cloth could keep embarrasment at bay. He lit a lantern to cast out the darkness within the tent and, with some dread, pulled up his pant leg and carefully removed his boot. As he expected, his ankle was swollen to the shape of a beet and and likewise coloured, smattered with dark bruises. As promised, Evelyn returned quickly, with a bowl of stew, a small pouch, a length of bandages, and pants for her, though no shirt for him, not that it was really an urgent matter.

“Here.” She placed the bowl in his hands, along with a wooden spoon kept in one of her pockets. She began to examine his ankle herself, her brow furrowing at the sight. “Looks painful.”

“It's not so ba–“ He tried not to make any noise when she pressed the pouch against the swelling, but only succeeded to make a strange, stifled yelp instead.

“Sorry!”

“There's no need to apologize.” The pouch gave off cold that quickly went from sharp to soothing, some magical concoction she must have had their accompanying mage whip up for him. “I know you would not mean to hurt me.”

“And you would not mean to hurt me,” she said, just above a whisper, her eyes kept down on her task, her half-wet locks bordering her face, concealing most of it from him.

“I pray you know this.”

She only nodded. Quietly, she began to crisscross the bandage around his foot, wrapping it tight enough to keep it in form, as well as he'd seen any medic in the field do. She put the remaining bandage aside, holding the ice-cold pouch back against that unsightly but thankfully covered lump.

Cullen put his untouched bowl aside and leaned his torso towards her, reaching his hand out to touch her rosy cheek. “Evelyn.” She looked at him, the green of her eyes masked by the low light, but fixated on him, unmistakably. And it was daunting, that look, but he'd had enough of being daunted. More than enough. “I would _never_ mean to hurt you. And if I did, I...” He took a shallow breath, forcing it right back out. “Maker, I would never stop asking for your forgiveness. I couldn't.”

If she hadn't already caught on to what he was actually talking about, she knew it then; he could see it, in her brow, in the corner of her mouth, all tight, reserved. But even still, she brought her hand up, holding it against his, her fingertips chilled from handling the pouch. “There would be no need to apologize, Cullen.”

“And still I would.”

Before a breath could pass, Evelyn closed the gap between them, joining her lips with his, kissing him with a need, the need for this, the need for more, a need he shared. And perhaps all that was needed to see it met, for the both of them, were words. Only words.

“We should talk about sex.” Was it awkward? Dull? Too direct? Not direct enough, somehow? Too sudden? Maybe precisely what she wanted to hear? It didn't matter much anymore, since it was out there, never to be taken back, and that hint of relief in Evelyn's expression told him it must have been good enough.

“Then let's talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydrtF45-y-g
> 
> Rating change incoming. ;D


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY

There. There it was. That was all she had to say, and he made it sound so simple, with such effortless confidence. That alone made Evelyn feel even sillier for making such a big deal out of this whole thing, but she couldn't dwell on it, not now that everything would go so smoothly, every question would be addressed, every concern put to rest. And that's what she believed as she exhaled deeply, feeling the burden that weighed on her waft away, like smoke caught by a breeze, when she answered him.

“So,” he began with a cough, “where, ah... where do we start?”

Then there was silence. Evelyn wasn't prepared for silence, not after everything she'd built up for herself mere seconds ago, and she especially wasn't prepared for realizing that _she_ was responsible for it, having failed to answer his open question. And, in a bit of a panic, she needed something to say, something to keep this silence from ruining this so very sorely needed progress.

“You're my first,” she blurted out. “I mean, you _will_ be my first. N-No, _would_ be, if you, if we...”

For an instant, she vividly remembered her daily Orlesian verb drills from long ago: tu es, tu seras, tu serais mon premier, je suis...

“I'm a virgin,” she instead admitted simply with her head hung low, like it was a misdeed on her part, something to feel guilty about — or perhaps it was a virtue, and the guilt lay in how she was risking it, and with such a will to.

“I know,” said Cullen.

She looked askance at him, unable to utter more than a startled “What?” in response to that. She'd certainly never say that she came off as experienced in these matters, but was it _really_ that obvious? Against her will, her mind raced to track down every instance of their shared interactions that could have screamed “naïve virgin.” Thankfully, Cullen mercifully interrupted what could have been an extensive and in-depth scavenger hunt.

“Lady Ibarra told me, when she confronted me,” he explained, his voice uneasy and his fingers smoothing through his hair absentmindedly. “She knew you spoke with Josephine about... about this. It was the crux of her accusations against our 'marriage.'”

Evelyn felt her heart beat hard inside her chest, as if it was trying to force its way through her ribcage like a battering ram. “How?” she asked.

Cullen shook his head slightly. “Overhead you, I suppose. Her or a spy of hers, maybe. I really can't say for sure how, but she knew.”

She hesitated to put her next question forth. “What did she say?”

Likewise, he seemed hesitant to answer. His lips moved, but took some time to actually part and produce a reply. “That you asked if it would hurt”— he looked at her, and then away —“when I, ah, took your maidenhead.”

Her hands busied themselves with pulling her cuffs back down to her wrists, though they really had no further to go. “Well, that's not how _I_ phrased it,” she muttered, as though it made any difference, because then he didn't _really_ know. Or something. Whatever reasoning she had made little sense, but she needed anything to convince herself that had control over her own affairs.

But, at the same time, she already felt that he knew this about her. She hadn't thought of it until then, but the prelude to this conversation was too pinpointed on her own anxieties to just be a shot in the dark, a lucky guess. And while this was certainly not the way he wanted him to find out, this _was_ along the lines of how she hoped he'd react, with understanding and patience, though she hadn't been prepared for how much anxiety this qualm of hers would cause him.

“Evelyn.” He put a careful hand on her arm. “If this makes you uncomfortable, we don't have to—“

“No, it's fine,” she insisted, and with such a need to do so that courtesy left her. “I'm fine, it's a stupid thing to worry over.”

“If you're worried about it, it's not stupid.” He almost sounded like he was chastising her for even thinking that, but he was too mild, far too mild. “Do you think it would really hurt so much?”

“I've always been told it would.” Many times, by many of her female relatives, fervently. Well, save for a lively aunt who she had heard called, among other things, a 'filthy harlot.' “But I've always kind of assumed that it was an exaggeration, maybe an outright lie. You have to keep the little noble lady in line, you know?”

Cullen tilted his head toward her, like he wanted to nod, but he really had no way to relate to the idea. Still, at the very least, he was lending his ear to her. She had a thought. It sent ice up her spine to consider speaking of it aloud, but maybe it was the only way to get through this with what they both want. Maybe she owed that to him. Maybe she owed that to herself.

So Evelyn swallowed, and committed to it. “There's something I worry about more, I think. Something I didn't ask Josephine about. Or tell her about, I guess. I'm not sure how to make it into a question.” A pause. She forced herself out of it. “But I want to tell you.”

“All right,” he said. “I'm listening.”

She willed her hands still. It took so much of her effort to do so.

“I was thirteen, and I’d just started to… to bleed.” She paused for a glimpse at his face. She expected to see discomfort, but found only attentiveness, and so continued. “I didn’t even know what was happening — thought I was dying, that I’d hurt myself somehow sparring earlier, or something, somehow — and I just started sobbing in a corner until one of the chambermaids found me.”

In spite of herself, she smiled a bit at the memory, at how ridiculous it was, despite how mortifying she recalled it being. “Next thing I know, I’m sitting across from my mother in her parlour, and she sent away all the servants so it’s just her and me. I’m still sniffling, holding back tears because all I know is that I’m not dying but I still don’t know what’s happening, and she says I’m a woman now.

“Then, and I remember this all so well, she says: ‘Evelyn, imagine you’re holding a platter, and atop it is a Feastday pheasant with all the trimmings, as perfect as any Feastday pheasant you’ve ever seen. You have to carry it through the whole of the estate, but you are being careless. Before you leave the kitchen, the cook takes a bite. Then, along the way, the stable boy takes a bite. A guard takes a bite. A page boy takes a bite. A visiting trader takes a bite. The keeper of the hounds takes a bite. The blacksmith and his apprentice take bites from it.

“And finally, you reach the dining room, and place the bones of that perfect pheasant on the table, in front of your husband.’” Her lips pursed, and she was taken aback by how much they had to struggle to continue giving voice to her words. “‘And you will have disgraced him, and us.’”

“That's...” Cullen faltered.

“And I just don't think it can be like that, like it takes part of you away, like it destroys you. It doesn't sound right at all.” Evelyn huffed through her nose, stifling a laugh at the notion, but still feeling its claws grip at her chest, making her exhalation shaky. “But then, sometimes, I think maybe I _am_ just that bird on that platter.”

“You're not.” He told her firmly, as insistent as she'd ever heard him say anything. “You're not,” he repeated, softly.

The harshness of his voice momentarily took her aback, but it was not directed at her. When that registered, her breath came back to her more easily.

“I know I am not to you, at least.” Evelyn smiled in spite of herself. “What a hassle I must be. Have you ever been with a wide-eyed, innocent maid before?” she asked in a sprightly tone, giving self-effacing humour a shot in breaking the tension.

Cullen breathed in deeply, and with his exhale, said, “No.”

“Oh,” was the only response she could muster before clamping her teeth down on her tongue. She felt the recoil of her little joke, and self-effacement gave way to even more self-consciousness.

“I've never been with anyone.”

Evelyn looked up.Cullen's sight was downcast, much like hers was as she admitted the very same thing to him. But, unlike him, she didn't know, hadn't even _considered_ this possibility. “Never?”

She saw herself in his expression, that shame, that guilty for what he'd done — or hadn't done, rather — as he nodded. And she was on the verge of drowning him in apologies for how insulting her incredulity was, but he spoke first. “I was never close enough to anyone for this. I didn't think I wanted to be, didn't think I _could_ , maybe.” He paused. “Until the circumstances of an unexpected Inquisition duty demanded that I be close to you.”

Her one and so far only attempt at diplomatic negotiations. She tried not to cringe at thinking of it once more. “I'm still so sorry for that. If I had only handled that better—”

“No, No, don't be,” Cullen implored, drawing closer to her, until they were shoulder to shoulder. He ran his knuckles along the ridge of her jaw, until he brushed against her earlobe, where he let his hand remain. “In spite of the trouble it's caused, it's still the reason I'm here with you now. It's the best thing to ever happen in my life.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his soft smile. “ _You_ are the best thing in my life.”

He swept her up in a kiss, a strong but tender hand held at her neck, fingers on her nape. Her skin tingled at his lips, at his touch, at his words. When they parted, their brows still pressed together, his curls graze against her forehead, mingling together with some of her own hair.

“I love you, Cullen.”

She felt his breath on her face, a quiet, joyful laugh mixed with that puff of air.

“I love you too. So much.” The words, those said and heard alike, made her feel giddy, so light that she could float away, but they also grounded her, put the full weight of her need for him upon her, all at once — such was the power laced in those words. When he backed away just far enough to look her right in the eyes, her gaze did not falter, could not escape the brown of his irises. “Do you want this, Evelyn?”

And she did not falter. “I want you.”

She couldn't help but feel proud of herself; that line was delivered _flawlessly._

And maybe it was that pride that kept her fingers steady when she unfastened the first clasp of her shirt, then put her hands aside — an invitation for Cullen to put them on equal footing. His eyes shifted down and to her face and back again before he accepted, taking over where Evelyn left off, doing away with each clasp methodically, ever so carefully, slow to the point of frustration, almost. But she said nothing, did nothing as he eased his way through the task. Instead, she only pondered how he would treat her body if he treated her clothes so gently, a thought as assuring as it was enticing.

With the shirt divided so, Cullen slid its sleeves down her arms, all the way down to her wrists, his thumbs grazing along her skin as he did. Evelyn shrugged her hands through, leaving the shirt right behind her, exposing all above her waist, save for the leather band strapped taut around her chest.

“You have so many freckles,” he commented, tracing his fingers back up her arms, coming to rest his palms on the sides of her well-speckled shoulders.

“Thank you.” She winced shortly after saying so. It wasn't a compliment, was it?

“I want to kiss every single one,” Cullen told her, seemingly as surprised as Evelyn was at his own boldness. Her skin prickled at the cool air, at the still-damp hair against her back, so contrasted with the warmth of his hands, the warmth of his voice, and the warmth rising steadily below her hips, sparking an untapped boldness of her own.

“You'd best get started, then.”

She saw his smile before he pressed it against her neck, peppering so many little kisses on her that maybe he _wasn't_ exaggerating his intent. He carried on, down past her collarbone, until lips reached a leather border. He withdrew, and held the end of one of the thick, interwoven strings still between his fingers, taking no further action. “Could I?” He cleared his throat. “Remove it, I mean.” He looked at her face, not at his next intended step, as he sought her permission. Evelyn wasted little time in giving it with a nod.

She wasn't wearing one of those lacy, sheer things that the women in the books seemed invariably to wear, the kind perfect for tearing apart with one misjudged yank, no — hers was sturdy, fit for a warrior with a sword in her hand instead of a courtier with a gilded fan in hers, and about as plain and unflattering as she could imagine. Even so, Cullen handled it with reverent care, patiently undoing knots and uncrossing laces.

“Do you really put this on everyday?” he asked, as if thinking aloud. “I-I'm sorry, I don't know if I'm supposed to speak, or stay quiet or _what_ to say...”

“It's fine, really.” She was trying to reassure herself as much as him, because she hadn't the slightest idea either. “And yes. Everyday.” She paused. “Always feels great to take it off, at least.”

“That's fortunate, then.” He pulled one of the strings free through yet another eyelet, continued doing so until all that remained were two loose cords suspended over her abdomen. Hesitation took him for a moment, keeping his hands steady, off of her, as if there was some force pushing them away, until he overcame it, and began to peel the leather away from her skin.

When she felt the night air against her newly-bared flesh, even though it was ridiculous, she swore for a second that the sensation was caused by his eyes on her. And though her face was probably red before, she could no longer ignore how hot her cheeks felt at that moment.

He placed a cautious hand against her breast, staying well clear of her nipples, just barely pressing into the supple flesh with his fingertips. It was such a mild touch, but it roused her all the same, made her want, made her ache.

“Is this all right?” he asked, again staying idle until an answer is given. There was so much asking, so many questions, so much concern in them, so much love.

“Yes, but...”

“But?” The word made him break contact entirely, leaving his hand hovering alongside the curve.

“You could touch more.” Evelyn moved her hair over her shoulder, leaving nothing to interfere with him. “If you'd like to.”

“Would you like me to?”

Another question. Another effortless answer.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I would.”

Cullen squandered no more time, using the same instant to reach a hand around to the small of her back, pulling her body closer, cup his other hand firm around her breast, and join his lips with hers. His tongue parted her mouth as he caressed her, skimming over her nipple, quickly bringing it to a stiff peak, bringing her to soft moans muffled by his own mouth. He kept at it, gentle but no longer tentative, untried but still so very pleasant. Soon both of his arms were wrapped around her, squeezing her bare chest flush against his — could he feel how hard her heart was beating then, how it pounded inside of her like a drumming song?

They tumbled down on the adjacent bedrolls on their sides, not leaving their embrace for an instant, and Evelyn couldn't even rightly tell if it was his or her motion that forced them down. There was no room to ponder such things, nor any need to care, really. Cullen's hand was back on her chest, and something hard jutted into the flesh of her hip. It gave Evelyn a bit of a start, though she was not ignorant of what it was.

His fingers trailed down her middle, traversing past her navel, just past the band of her pants, and pulled back. It was just far enough to excite her, not far enough to sate her. He started the descent again, coming up short once more, another time, again. He was either trying to drive her mad with lust until she begged for his touch, or — the far more likely option — his nerves were stopping him.

Evelyn put her fingers atop the wrist of his hesitant hand. No grip, only presence. She guided him down, crossing past his previous frontier, until he took over, her consent given with action in lieu of words, but given all the same. When his hand slipped between her legs, grazing across her clitoris even through the layers of leather and cotton, she shivered.

“Is that... do you like that?”

She smiled. “It's a promising start.”

Cullen cleared his throat quietly, though there was little other sound to diminish his, before shifting his hand around. It was cautious, experimental, but a far cry from unpleasant, as the sounds bubbling up from Evelyn's throat testified to.

“Would it feel better if you weren't...”

“Wearing pants?” she finished his sentence, hazarding a guess.

“I-I imagine it would, is all.” He was not wrong.

Evelyn placed her fingertip on the furrow that jutted out from the side of his unclothed waist, tracing along its defined ridge to the stringed band of his trousers, the fabric overtaxed by his erection.

“Would _you_ feel better if you weren't wearing pants?”

“Perhaps,” he muttered. “Probably.” He paused. “Yes.”

They worked concurrently to relieve one another of their remaining, burdensome livery, untying and wriggling as necessary to do so. Once her legs were bare — once again this night — Evelyn got up on her knees and took pains to keep his injury undisturbed. It was an adequate task to distract her enough from what she was _actually_ doing, and in turn giving her the guts to go through with stripping a man down to his smallclothes.

As she returned to Cullen's side, her glance at what she unveiled was transitory, timid. Her touch followed the trail of coarse flaxen hair that sprung from below his navel, her movement slow enough to him to object, slow enough for him to stop her. He did neither. She reached beneath the linen, pushing it down. His breath rustled the hair against her temple.

Not even from sight, only from the shape of her hand around him, she could tell that what she'd done with flustered fingers beneath her bedsheets was a separate experience entirely. It was exciting, but intimidating. Very intimidating.

“Not so tight, not so tight,” he entreated her in rapid succession.

Evelyn loosened her grip, throwing out apologies so furiously that she couldn't seem to reign in her tongue after all of them. “Sorry, sword grip. But I guess it won't go flying out of my hand if I let go.” _Huh_ _?_ “Your penis, I mean.” _No. Stop._ “Since it's attached to you and all.” _Evelyn Lisbeth Trevelyan, shut your mouth right now._ “Could you imagine that? Hah...” _Is this your idea of dirty talk?_

“I... what?”

“Sorry,” she whispered once more. Her hand, possibly the only relaxed part of her at that moment, began to move again. “Is that better?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cullen groaned, his extremely justifiable bewilderment seeming to evaporate away in a passing moment. Useful knowledge for the next time she'd make a fool of herself, perhaps.

He pulled her closer yet, fixing her head into the crook of his neck, his chin's stubble scratching against her brow, as he continued to feel between her folds.

“There,” breathed Evelyn when the moment called for it. “Right there.”

He responded. His touches gained a rhythm, a focus they did not have before, an echo of her own pleasures intermingled with all the excitement of knowing it was _him_ doing this to her. She couldn't stop herself from breathing a soft, slow moan against his neck, nearly gasping when he happened to circle his fingers over _just_ the right spot with _just_ the right amount of pressure.

There was a shaky grunt. A warm splatter catching against her belly, up to the underside of her breasts. A hushed but uncharacteristically harsh curse.

Evelyn remained still, even as it dripped down on and between her fingers. She didn't know what to do; this _never_ happened in the stories she read.

“Andraste's...” Cullen, apparently unable to decide what aspect of the Maker's bride to invoke, instead invoked none, and shielded of his face with the hand he'd earlier wrapped around her. “I didn't think I'd...” He huffed, exasperated.

“It's all right,” she said softly, meaning to soothe his very evident shame. He was already not as firm as he was a mere moment ago, she could tell, before she pulled her hand away as discreetly as she was able to; she figured jerking away like she'd just touched a hot stove would make him feel worse.

“I'm sorry, I've made a mess of this.”

Literally, too, as did not escape his mind. He took his hand away from her sex, an absence keenly felt, to scavenge around their nearby packs. The liquid on her flesh swiftly lost its warmth, instead chilling in the air, before Cullen handed her a cloth intended for oiling steel, avoiding her eyes entirely. Evelyn swabbed it all away, but a sticky-feeling film remained on her skin, despite her best efforts.

“We'll... have to try again another time.” He sat hunched over his raised knee, his scarred back facing her more than not, and sighed. “If you'd want to.”

“I'd want you to keep doing what you were doing, Cullen.”

At that, he turned his neck towards Evelyn, as if his eyes would confirm what his ears had heard. And perhaps they did, for what he found was not a woman fain to laugh or roll her eyes at him, but a soft-eyed woman sprawled and eager and waiting. For him.

And so he came back to her, resuming his caressesas he did before they were interrupted, bringing her body back into his warm hold. His touches wandered, sliding over her slit, the tip of a single finger just nudging its way in. It seemed unintentional, given the stillness that followed.

“Go ahead,” said Evelyn. She figured it would be nothing new to her, save for the person doing it to her, and that was an appeal all in itself.

He slid into her painfully slow, but that was the only pain, even as he moved within her. In spite of her nerves, she was as slick as she could ever make herself imagining this moment, imagining others yet to transpire outside of her head.

“Another,” she urged.

“You're sure?”

“Very.”

He complied, meeting ring with middle finger, once again so agonizingly slow. She felt him stretch her then, his fingers possessing a size that surpassed her own, but she could take them. Oh, how she welcomed how they pulsed into her.

“Do you like that?” Cullen asked once more, but it was not the same as earlier. His voice was like honey in tea, like lying in front of a crackling fire on a cold night, like lovers in an embrace.

“ _Yes._ ”

Evelyn tried to spread her legs further apart, to make this easier for him, to make this better for her. He withdrew his fingers so he could reach around her leg, linking his elbow with the back of her thigh, making her calf dangle up in the air, then delved back into her so easily. The slight shift in position angled her hips just so, and the same motion made him thrust against that spot that always brought her closer to her release. So what if...

Her own fingers trailed down and met her engorged clit, stroking herself with rapid, circular motions, at times knocking against his fingers in this onslaught of stimulation from within and without.

“Shh,” he ordered softly when her voice threatened to escape the walls of their tent. When the direction wasn't, or rather _couldn't_ be followed, muffled her with kisses, their lips continually on the edge of their mark, moans and cries permeating through all the same.

“Don't stop,” she gasped in the same breath she took when they broke apart, just for a moment. She picked up her pace, feeling herself with goal in sight. “Don't stop.”

“I won't.” And he did not. “Do you need me to be slower or faster or?” She gave him no time for a third option, whatever it could have been.

“Faster, faster's good.” Her words slurred into one another, her mind too devoted focusing on this moment, on this feeling, to bother with enunciation.

And that surge of speed, paired with her own, was all that was needed to send her tumbling into waves of climax, to make her jolt and writhe in Cullen's embrace, to make her muscles squeeze around his digits, to make her blood hurtle through her veins, until the flames were lulled into embers, until all the smoke dissipated into nothingness, and she was left with heart pounding and lungs straining.

“That seemed, um.” Cullen cleared his throat, quite vigorously, at that. “Enjoyable? I-I hope it _was_ , I mean.”

“Mm-hmm.” Evelyn was reasonably aware of the dopey grin on her red-hot face, but she was of no mind to care much about it.

“Good, that's good — Oh, right.” Cullen freed his fingers from her, the momentary friction against her sensitive flesh making her whole body shudder. Sitting up, he released her leg from his arm, letting the tense muscles stretch out and relax, then rested his hand atop her thigh, close to her hip. The trace of peace in his mien, however, soon gave way to a despondent frown. “I suppose this wasn't quite how you pictured your first night with a man, though.”

“Hmm.” She scrunched up her face in thought, then meandered through them in speech. “Well, there's no lavender-scented candles, or sparkling Orlesian wine, or rose petals on the bed... or a bed, I suppose. And maybe what happened was different from what I expected.” Reaching out one hand, she ran the backs of her fingers softly along his strong, stubbled jaw. “But the man is _precisely_ how I've imagined him.”

Cullen sighed in a mix of relief and contentment, the soft glow of their still-burning lantern planting shadows in his smiling face. “Maker's breath, do I love you.”

He leaned down to kiss her, embracing her tight by the waist, making the dizzying sweetness of Evelyn's climax even more dizzying and sweeter yet.

“We should get dressed,” she said when their lips parted. “If we're set upon during the night, I'd rather not go into battle like this.”

As she rose from the bedroll, twisting away to gather up her tossed-aside outfit, a hand clutched her forearm. She turned back to see Cullen, prone, below her, his eyes steady on hers. “A moment longer,” he said simply. “Please.”

His hand slid down to take ahold of hers, interlocking their fingers. At the gesture, Evelyn's heart fluttered in a way that just seemed silly after what had just happened, but it did so all the same. She complied with every possible willingness, settling down against the nook of his shoulder, regaining the unparalleled warmth of skin against skin, that which Cullen surely sought, surely could not stand to forsake just yet. Not yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me?
> 
> So I think the universe has been conspiring against these two getting naughty. I've been getting tons of extra shifts at work and lots of hours (which is good! money good!) so I've been busy, and pretty exhausted when I get home. I've also had a couple (minor!) finger injuries that have made typing really annoying (side note, bee stings hurt like hell). Then I got sick. Then I was terrified that this chapter wasn't good enough for how damn long it took me. Then I got terrified that nobody would like this chapter if penis didn't go into vagina, so I tried rewriting it a few times, but I liked my original idea the best so HERE IT IS.
> 
> Oof. I hope you enjoyed it!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me? (Once again?)
> 
> So for the better part of the last month my job had taken a real toll on my time and my stress, and I pretty much stopped writing completely, figuring I'd just pick up where I left off once that was over with, not expecting to lose my momentum and motivation so drastically. I eventually (as in just today) figured that posting what I had, whatever I had, just might actually kick my ass back on track, no matter how I felt about it, because progress is progress, right? I don't know if my reasoning makes any sense, but here's an incredibly short update anyhow!
> 
> I'd say sorry for the wait, but you're all so damn sweet you probably don't want me to even think of doing that.
> 
> ...
> 
> (Sorry)

From the day Cullen committed himself to his Templar training, he had been diligent in getting up on his feet as soon as wakefulness came to him, diligent in setting himself to the many tasks and duties ahead of him each day, diligent in never lingering beneath his sheets for any reason. Then again, he’d never had a compelling reason to linger until now. Until her.

Warmth came to him before conscious thought did. He held that warmth closer, indulging in it, unconcerned with his how greedy his need for it seemed. Her free-flowing hair covered his face when he pulled her form against his, tickling his nose when he breathed it, startling him into awareness. The tent, with lantern at rest, was dimly lit, its only source of light the barely there sun that managed to permeate the thick canvas walls around them. Within that darkness, touch brought the picture to life: the feel of their bare legs tangled together (so they had fallen asleep before dressing after all), his arms wrapped around her torso, her soft backside pressed flush against his – well, something not quite as soft, as was not overly unusual for him upon waking.

For whatever reason, it was about at that time that he realized that his arm, the one tucked beneath his lady Inquisitor’s sleeping form, was as asleep as the rest of him was a moment ago. It felt like his hand was being pricked by a thousand pins, an agonizing annoyance to disrupt an otherwise perfect experience. That seemed to about sum up the previous night, as was why he probably started to think upon that.

It had been… an interesting night, as Cullen would call it, even if he’d admit that describing it as so wasn’t actually saying anything – it’s still the word he had settled on. Nonetheless, there were things to say, and matters to confront, and, quite unfortunately, the soft oblivion of sleep had not erased from his mind the fact that he lasted as long as a snowball brought into a sweltering room. His dry mouth came to his attention as his mind walked through the steps of that the moment, piecing it back together: the heat of her unclothed body, raw and intense, so different from the warmth she gave off as she lay there beside him; his hand delving uncertainly between her legs, desperate for guidance, any instruction at all; the feel of her breath against his neck when his awkward groping actually made her _moan_.

And that sound was to be his downfall. All of the exhilaration, all of the newness, all of his nerves came down upon him in a instant, and he was powerless against their assault. It was like his own body betrayed him, made him incapable of giving her the pleasure she sought.

Or so he believed. The prominent hitches in their intended plans aside, the night was not so bad as those few seconds would otherwise have suggested. His own pleasure had been snuffed out prematurely, certainly, but hers? No – hers remained alight, in hitched breaths and pleas wordless and worded alike, culminating in the clench of her muscles around his fingers, a sweet strangulation with a beat of its own. And to have given this to her, in some measure by his own efforts, was another pleasure entirely, separate but no less strongly felt, more complex but still experienced at the most basic level of his being.

It was also more arousing than any moment in his life, real or imagined, without contest. The increasing tension in his groin as he recalled it could testify to that.

Evelyn stirred against him. On a whim, spurred by the thoughts that had become clear in his head, Cullen smoothed her locks away from her neck, laying one soft kiss after another on the skin left bare. She raised her head lazily, twisting to face him, and when the opportunity struck he pressed his lips to hers, cradling her farther cheek in his palm. Stunned and still coming out of her sleep, she did nothing for a time, and then, as if brought back to life, returned his kiss.

“Good morning,” said Cullen.

“Mornin’,” she mumbled in a tone that didn’t make it clear if she either appreciated being woken up in such a way or if she despised him for waking her up at all. In any case, after a yawn, she longed for another kiss, though her drowsiness made hers land on his chin. He appreciated it all the same.

“Sleep well?”

“Mmm.” That was a yes, he supposed. Like an animal rising from its rest, she stretched out her limbs, still kept within his embrace, and shifted her middle about, coming to a sudden pause at about the same instant Cullen held his tongue as to not make a noise. “Cullen,” she began, apparently concerned, “did you fall asleep with your sword on?”

“I… didn’t fall asleep with _anything_ on.” Save for the bandage wrapped around his ankle, if that counted.

She wriggled her hips. “Then why’s there a pommel—“ A moment passed in silence. “Oh.” She gasped beneath her breath, a gasp of realization, a kick into a more conscious consciousness. “ _Oh_.”

Cullen cleared his throat, still parched for a want of drink, but that didn’t warrant much of his attention at the time. They both remained still, clasped together, until Evelyn, with a sudden air of resolve in her movements, broke just free enough to flip over to her opposite side, to lie face to face with him. She pulled in close to his body, so his manhood became nestled between the hairs of his pelvis and those of hers.

“Cullen,” she whispered, somehow drawing in nearer still, and every word that followed trickled from lips he could just picture in his mind. “Do you want to do something about that?”

With every muscle in his body, every drop of blood in his veins, _yes._ But even still, he couldn’t make a single move without asking, “Do you?” His hand found her cheek, felt the blush his eyes could not perceive.

She returned the act in kind, certainly receiving the same warmth in kind. “You know I do.”

Hearing that made it near impossible to stay still.

He kept their bodies tight together as he tossed her onto her back, supine beneath him. The action was not rough, no, but far bolder than he thought himself capable of. Maybe it was the part of his mind still not fully awake, or knowing they were in a near blackness that hid any lack of confidence that would have marked his features, maybe it was something inspirational in the crisp forest air at sunrise for all he knew. He thirsted for her, for her touches, for the sounds she made in his arms, for the feel of her climax, not around his fingers but instead his cock – oh, it’s such a crass word but it was the one his impulses brought to his brain in the haze of that moment. Whatever pause his inexperience gave him the night before would be replaced, erased; he would take her, he would please her, he would make love to her.

He would try to support himself atop her on a completely numb arm, the fact forgotten in the heat of the moment, he would fumble down, and he would smash his forehead into hers.

That dawn, in that tent, there would be no taking, no pleasing, no lovemaking, only a cacophony of pained groans, and an agreement that it was well past time for the troops’ reveille.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there'll be more plot.
> 
> And more penis.
> 
> Cullen might even take previously received advice soon IT'S A WORLD OF POSSIBILITY


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I was thinking for this chapter, but it was fun to write and I do hope it's fun to read.
> 
> As always, you guys are the best. <3

_She leans against the tree behind her, crossing her arms, focusing her piercing stare on the man in front of her. “What were you thinking, following me all the way here?” she speaks barely above a whisper, even they alone are the only souls within earshot. “You know Seeker Cassidy will tear you apart for shirking your duties like this.”_

_He takes a step towards her. “So be it. Being away from you tears me apart all the same.”_

_She stubbornly tries to keep up a stern façade, but a façade is all it is, and it’s cracking beneath his hungry voice and his golden curls, kissed by the falling sun. “You exaggerate, Colin.”_

_“No, Lynne,” he responds, stepping closer still, making her back into the tree, brazenly taking ahold of her hips with his hands. “I cannot bear the thought of a day without you.” His eyes wander down and back up, luxuriating in what they see. “Or a night.”_

_She inhales sharply, soaking up his heady scent, trying to keep her senses straight for just a moment longer, trying to make him the one to break instead of her. “Is this what seizes your thoughts, even as the world crumbles around us?”_

_His laugh resonates in her ears. “Let it, as long as I can have you this ni_

Out of character, horribly out of character, just downright embarrassing work. Varric violently crumpled up the page covered in his scribblings, tossing it into the near-dead but for his purposes still functional fire in front of him, and comforted himself with the idea that it would soon turn to ash and any trace of him writing on it would be erased from existence.

“Writer’s block?” asked the Iron Bull, seated on the fallen log on the opposite side of the campfire, scooping up a spoonful of overcooked porridge on from the bowl on his lap.

Possibly the most dreaded combination of words the dwarf knew of. “More or less,” he responded vaguely, as if admitting otherwise would only make it worse.

“What’s got you stumped?”

“Thoughtful of you to ask, Tiny, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear me prattle on about my little pet project.”

Bull took a bite or sip or something of his breakfast mush, and wrinkled up his nose before asking, “Is it for one of your dirty books?” He received a tilted nod in response. “Then prattle on, my smut-peddling friend.”

Varric sighed, knowing he wouldn’t drop it, and perhaps hoping that thinking aloud would illuminate some solutions for him. “The love interest’s character development is becoming the bane of my existence. I’ve really entrenched him in his”—he searched for just the right term—“romantic ineptitude, played it up for laughs, broke some tension, warmed him up to the heroine. Now I can’t get his shift from awkward admirer to smooth lover right – it’s just too forced.”

“Maybe because you’re _forcing_ it.” Painfully straightforward, as seemed to be Bull’s preferred attitude, apparently even when it came to smutty literature. “Why shift it at all? Who says lovers need to be smooth? Keep him _rough_.”

A chuckle arose from the odd use of the word, in context. “My target audience seems to prefer dashing to fumbling.”

“Then convince them to prefer the fumbling.” Bull put his bowl aside, freeing up his hands for broad gestures as he spoke with an almost intimidating amount of conviction on the subject. “You know why the otherwise competent fellow is fumbling? Because he’s so madly in love that it’s making him _stupid_ , but it’s an endearing kind of stupid, and if you can’t convince people that it’s worth reading about how crazy his woman makes him, well, then you’re not trying hard enough.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about a character from a story you’ve never read.”

“Nah, I just know you can conjure up your own ideas about as well as you could a fireball out your ass. Or anywhere else.”

Varric cringed, though he inwardly took Bull’s familiarity with his work as a compliment. “Ouch. Art comes from real life, you know?” he said, feigning insult.

“Then start _imitating_ it.” Bull paused a moment, twisting up in his mouth in thought, and with an expression of defeat, took the porridge bowl and spoon back up.

Again to the point, and again exactly what Varric needed to hear. Maybe he was so stuck in his conventions that he couldn’t actually see what was in front of him. It didn’t take a keen observer to see that much had changed since his fictional characters’ real-life counterparts had suddenly announced their marriage. The tone of their relationship had moved quite far away from gawky interactions to something… well, still gawky, but no longer forced – like the quick peck on the forehead he gave her when they were barely out of sight of the camp that morning, and thought they were out of sight, making her face come close to matching her hair. It was just the tooth-melting sweetness you find filling the pages of any sentimental romance, but real.

Huh. Maybe they could actually have pulled off this bizarre marriage scheme of theirs. Either that or actually end up married before all this was done; anything could happen.

“You’re a huge pain in the ass,” said Varric, flicking away his trail of thoughts for later consideration. “I ought to make you my writing coach.”

“I don’t come cheap.” Bull was about to subject himself to another spoonful, but his mouth seemed to have other ideas at hand. “Hey, out of curiosity: Inquisition’s resident husband and wife – who do you think would win in a fist fight?”

“A fist fight?“ he echoed, to make certain he’d heard correctly. Knowing Bull’s character, he probably could have skipped that part. “Why would they ever get in a fist fight?”

Bull merely shrugged. “Interior decorating disagreement, drapes or something, specifics unimportant. Who wins?”

Well, there was no harm in humouring the hypothetical. “Not that I’d want to get on the bad side of _either_ of them, but if nobody was holding back, I’d put my money down on Curly.”

“Huh.” Bull raised a bow. “Interesting choice.”

“Which I assume means you don’t agree with it.”

“No, not really.”

“You really don’t think he could win? We do agree that this is a hypothetical situation where he would _actually_ dare to punch her, right?” Because he must have had a maniacal, characteristically antithetical passion for the colour of their household’s drapery to come to this, and this had to be made clear.

“Have you seen the hunk of metal she swings around?” Excitement began to find its way into Bull’s words. “She’s got arms that could blow your head clean off your neck.”

“Well, now you’re just exaggerating.”

“For _my_ head and neck, maybe. But Cullen’s?” He swiped his spoon against the width of his neck with a whoosh of breath. “Gone. One punch.”

“Just what are you both going on about?”

Varric had apparently let himself get so engrossed in the bizarre topic that he’d been oblivious to anyone approaching. The Inquisitor, aptly named at the moment for she had asked the question, was standing close by with the Commander, his weight clearly shifted over to one foot, at her side.

“Just about how charming a pair you two make, Freckles,” replied Varric.

Evelyn, seemingly with a greater will to dismiss the matter than to pry further into it, just shook her head. She helped her limping husband down to an empty spot to Varric’s side, to which Cullen returned a sheepish but still sincere nod, and then flung an overflowing scoop of porridge into a bowl that quickly entered his hands. She repeated the action for herself, settling into the additional spot that Varric made by scooting aside, and they both began to shovel their breakfasts in their mouths, the rims of their bowls just about joined to their lower lips – behaviour that’d be abhorrent in genteel company, but acceptable enough in their current setting. For a time, they paid heed to nothing else, giving no indication that they cared about its poor preparation, even for porridge. As usual, the Inquisitor’s daily tasks at dawn generally kept her away from more than a quick bite for a time, and either through sympathy or his sense of duty, Cullen joined her fast that morning, and therein lied the origins of this shared ravenous appetite. That was, of course, the most straightforward answer. And the most boring.

“Maybe you could’ve gotten your breakfast sooner if you weren’t going at it so early,” said Bull offhandedly, not even looking up at those he was addressing,

The same look, the one you see when someone realizes they’ve bitten into something unsavory, fell on both Cullen’s and Evelyn’s faces so simultaneously it seemed rehearsed. Whether or not they were actually rubbing against each other, they still seemed to rubbing off on each other. Varric screwed up the corner of his mouth; that line had potential, but needed some real work.

“What are you talking about?” Evelyn asked slowly, a hint of cautious accusation in her voice. Cullen didn’t say a word, though he had not managed to ignore Bull enough to return to his eating.

“No point in denying it, Boss. The whole camp could hear all that grunting and groaning from your tent. Sounded fun. Can’t say I’m not jealous.”

Subtlety was not the realm of the Iron Bull, or, at the very least, not one he was interested in at the time. At his statement, the two scrunched up their faces in short-lived confusion, looking sideways at each other before their expressions gave way to a realization that made them look gaunter for it.

“Andraste’s— That’s not—“ Cullen exclaimed, coming to a quick halt before he could put his composure in further jeopardy. He rubbed his forehead in what seemed to Varric a curiously involuntary action, making him wonder if it was more than an attempt to curb an understandable headache.

“Hey, we all have to keep ourselves entertained in camp,” said Varric, jumping into the midst of such entertainment. “Some have Wicked Grace, some have songs, your wife apparently makes good use of you.”

Evelyn grumbled something beneath her breath, presumably something about the Maker, Varric would hazard, and massaged her brow in an impressively similar manner.

Cullen sighed, his annoyance becoming increasingly evident. “You are on duty. Do you think this is an acceptable way to speak in the presence of the Inquisitor?” Yikes. Even the Commander was rarely enough of a hard-ass to cite conduct.

There was the slightest grin on Bull’s mouth, made just perceptible by the shift of scar tissue on his lip, before those lips parted to say, “My bad, Commander. Unlike you, we’re ignorant of the nuances of _intercourse_ with the Inquisitor.”

That took a second for Cullen to get.

Then, in the space of a single breath, Cullen, blood pooled in his face, shot up to his feet, more or less smothered a cry of pain as his injured foot took his sudden weight upon it, dropped his bowl and what remained inside it on the ground, and, with the immediately-offered assistance of the clearly concerned Inquisitor, stumbled back down to his seat across from someone who took far too much pleasure in how easy it was to torment him. Varric didn’t know whether he should have felt pity or laughed, but there really was something genuinely endearing about how flustered this grown man could get about whatever exactly this relationship was. Hilarious too. Mostly hilarious, actually, but still endearing.

And that made Varric think maybe Bull was right on track; maybe he was just going about this romantic novel the wrong way completely.

Maybe it needed to be a comedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50,000 word mark WOO


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This school term has been rough. That's about all that can be said. But I'm still here!
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE

The forest shrunk into the distance behind the Inquisitor’s caravan, transforming into a thin green line against the horizon by midday, and then fading away completely from view. They spent most of the day trekking across the Exalted Plains, finding little resistance in the way of terrain or adversaries, beneath a bright but mild sun. It was, in theory, the best kind of journey a commander could hope for – no need to unsheathe swords beyond the appearance of a few stray beasts on the roads, no glutinous mud to free their supply cart from, and no wounds beyond the ones that he had already sustained himself. On that note, Cullen was reasonably certain that he’d never sustained so many minor injuries in such a short time. While he knew he should be, and was, reasonably thankful to get through a mission with no more than a grotesquely discoloured ankle and a surprisingly persistent headache, every little twinge of pain, no matter how incomparable to a serious injury, reminded him of an ineptitude that even he didn’t know existed.

He was relieved to see the Inquisition’s standard waving while the sun had still not dipped behind the horizon, meaning they could integrate themselves into an existing camp for the night instead of having to start from scratch. As they rode in, the Inquisition members maintaining the outpost greeted their Herald with fervour, approaching her eagerly to give them their welcomes. They extended the same courtesy to their Commander once his presence became known, although everyone seemed confused that he was there instead of back in Skyhold managing his usual affairs. He accepted congratulations on his marriage with nods and brief words of appreciation, dodged questions about his limp better than he dodged the blighted root that gave it to him, and dealt with any tasks that needed to be done as diligently as possible so he could turn in until morning.

Evelyn’s gaze caught his more than once as they did their respective work and talked to their respective people. She seemed just as eager, if not more so, to be in her tent. Their tent. It was an eagerness that she tried to downplay as she called the group’s attention, having more or less prepared themselves for the now present night.

“We’re making good time,” she began, clearly and evenly. “We could very well reach the Western Approach tomorrow, but the day’s journey will still be long. Get to sleep early. Rest up for it.”

“Yeah, so let’s all try to keep it quiet in our tents, huh?” said Bull. His newfound acquaintance, the requisitions officer next to him, very much next to him in fact, turned her head to the side and grinned.

“Let’s,” was Evelyn’s humourless reply. A tiny twitch in the corner of Cullen’s mouth betrayed his otherwise stoic façade. The two turned around and headed towards their tent, ducking into and behind the flaps, Cullen still with a hobble to overcome. He settled atop the bedroll and began to unlace his boots as she lit a small lantern, providing a minimum of light and a dim sign of their continued wakefulness.

“How’s your foot doing?” she asked him, removing her outermost layer of clothes and beginning to unbraid her hair.

He removed the wrapping and inspected his ankle by the light she provided, finding it to still be swollen and variegated with dark reds, purples, and specks of his more usual skin tone. “I don’t think it’s any _worse_.” He wrapped it back up, following the pattern Evelyn made beforehand. “My head’s what’s really been bothering me, actually.” He realized, a moment too late, that the statement could have also been translated to “Hey, remember when we were going to make love this morning and I _head-butted_ you instead?”

“Really?” she said, surprised. “My head stopped pounding a long time ago.”

Cullen rubbed a few circles into his brow, as if to demonstrate that the result of his idiocy was, in fact, lingering. “You must be more thick-skulled than me, then.”

And lingering, and lingering…

“I-I meant—“

“No, no, I know what you meant, just, uh.” Evelyn cleared her throat.

“I mean, ah… I think the headache stuck around because of your companions. The Iron Bull has an incessant amount of private and bizarre questions, and I’m starting to feel like Varric’s taking notes on me.”

“Why would he being taking notes?” Cullen could only shrug in reply, and she gave him a sheepish look. “They are… quite the handful, though, I’ll admit.”

“Are they always like this?”

“More or less.”

“Why take them with you, then?”

“Well, you get the balance between ranged and melee combatants to keep our opponents on their toes. On top of that, Varric can shoot an enemy dead-on in the eye from across the battlefield, and Bull looks like he can rip heads off and he probably can.”

He drew his lips into his mouth for a second, then sighed quietly. “I’m sorry, it was not my intention to question your judgement.”

“No, don’t worry about it – sometimes I have to ask myself why I bring them anywhere. But enough about them, they’re not here,” said Evelyn, her lips curving into a soft smile. She reached out and rested her palm on his thigh. “We’re the only ones here.”

He couldn’t have expected his reaction, didn’t even think that it could happen. When she touched him, spoke to him with that whisper of anticipation, he felt his stomach twist and sink, and he instinctively jerked away. He did not actually put any distance between them, but it was a response that couldn’t remain unnoticed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, tentatively moving her hand away.

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.” He felt a careful hand on his shoulder, leaning more steadily on him a moment later. He could feel her warmth, even through his clothes. “Cullen.” He had avoided her gaze, but at the sound of his name, he caught a glimpse of her, the concern in her face shadowed against the lantern’s light, and her hair. Her loosened hair was incredible, almost entrancing, like strands of smooth copper pressed into waves. “You can tell me.”

He hesitated, in part because of a pure desire to hesitate, but also because he needed a moment to gather why he had suddenly become so uncomfortable at her touch. It seemed silly, with how they embraced each other, naked and so new to this, just the night before. And that was it.

“With what happened last night, with us, I mean, I just don’t know if…” He stopped to exhale. “I want to make you happy.”

“You _do_ make me happy, Cullen.”

“In bed, I mean.” Bedroll, to be precise, as it stood. An unimportant detail, though.

“Like you did last night?”

“Properly.”

There was sympathy in the way she looked at him then, a tenderness to her expression that only served to make her more beautiful. If only he had been giving her the pleasure she deserved in that moment, instead of foisting his annoying insecurities off on her.

“I don’t know what I’m doing any better than you, you know. You don’t have to worry about that.” She drew both of her hands into her lap and began to fidget with them, even more zealously than usual. “Listen, um, I had actually been thinking today. Well, last night ended up being all for me, so maybe… tonight should be all for you.”

He looked back at her, catching sight of the glow beginning to surface on her cheeks. “I’m not sure what you mean.” But it would have been a lie to say he wasn’t intrigued, hence the prompt for her to help him figure it out.

She rubbed the back of her neck, tilting it forward somewhat. Her eyes looked up. “I want to do something for you.” A pause. “ _Just_ for you.” Eyes right back down. “Withmymmnnth.”

“With what?”

“My mouth,” she repeated, more clearly, though still like she was speaking through a hiccup.

“I see,” he replied, too dumbstruck by what he was seeing in his head at her proposition to say much else. He wanted to tell her that that wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t have to do something like that for him. Instead, after an awkward pause of an indeterminable duration, he simply said, “All right,” speaking through a nerve-ridden hiccup of his own.

Evelyn bit her lip in the midst of a smile, and suddenly the little shine on that soft, pink flesh enticed him like nothing else. He recalled the feel of her mouth on his, of her tongue sliding against his own, and wondered, though it seemed he would not have to wonder for long. She started to help him out of his trousers, unlacing and slinking them down, smallclothes and all, exposing him, half-hard already from thought and intent, to her sight. She fumbled about, seemingly trying to position herself both comfortable and efficient, finally settling down on her side, one arm propping her up, the other rested on his thigh. He leaned back into the bulky pack behind him, and when his eyes caught with hers, they shared a self-conscious laugh; Evelyn capped hers off with a heavy exhale.

“Let me know if anything feels wrong,” she told him, almost muttering, but he could still hear her, even with his heart throbbing in his ears. He gave her a nod, and breathed in deeply.

Her fingers folded around the very base, keeping his cock steady as she, after some delay, pressed her tongue again his flesh. She slid up slowly, and Cullen felt a shiver all the way to his spine when she reached the top, circling softly around the ridges there. Positioned so, she sealed her lips around the head and enveloped him inch by inch, nearly to where her mouth met with her hand.

“Maker…” he muttered with a soft gasp. His mind at night had shamefully wandered to this thought, more than once bringing him much-needed release before sleep, but his hand was no equal to the real act. Her mouth was impossibly warm, impossibly soft, so much so that even her stillness made his head feel fuzzy. She withdrew him from her mouth, though not letting him slip out entirely, before dropping back down again. She repeated the motion at a dawdling pace, again and again making him ache at the anticipation of being inside of her again. He groaned, almost inaudibly at first, but with an increasing need to keep his voice down so she’d be the only one to hear him.

“Good?” she asked, her mouth still so close that he could feel her breath brush against the head of his erection, and he nodded with a wordless sound of approval. He dared to focus his eyes down at her long enough to see the content smile on her beet-red face, just before that smile engulfed him once more, making his eyes squeeze shut.

Evelyn experimented with the tip and the flat of her tongue, sucked with varying degrees of pressure, heeded his wincing when her teeth scraped against his skin, until she returned to bobbing her head up and down again, though with a resolution she didn’t possess even moments ago. It was hard not to make noise as her rhythm quickened, though he began to notice the absence and reappearance of the hand around his length, along with lulls in her head’s otherwise smooth motion. He chanced another look, knowing that, at this point, the sight may well have been enough to end him. He saw her hand brush a long stray lock behind her ear, only to have it knocked loose again mere seconds later. Cullen lifted his hand up from the ground, keeping it suspended in the air until his hesitation passed, then swept back the troublesome hairs. He kept his fingers soft against the side of her head, not influencing or controlling the action, but suddenly feeling an unexpected rush of arousal at the contact between her and his fingertips. She paused. Her eyes, dark and warm, tilted up to find his, while his manhood was still buried between her lips. His heart pounded like mad; how he didn’t spill himself in that very instant, Maker, he would never know. But he would not last much longer, _that_ he knew for certain.

“Evelyn, I’m about to,” he began to warn, his words cut off by a sound of pleasure. Her mouth only moved faster, took him in with greater intensity, worked with a purpose. “Evelyn,” he repeated, more urgently, certainly loud enough to be heard, but she continued, as if she was ignoring him. He meant to draw her attention once more, but it was too late already. He moaned through his orgasm, shoving his knuckles in front of his mouth to muffle himself, as he relished the feel of emptying himself in her mouth – the very thing he was trying to help her avoid. His near-numb legs shuddered as she slid his cock out, rubbing against those now incredibly sensitive nerves for one last time.

“Maker’s breath, Evelyn,” he gasped, sinking backing and resting his hand against his brow as he caught his breath.

Cullen received no answer, not a word nor a sound. Equally curious and concerned, he moved his hand out of the way, straightened himself up a bit, and looked at her. She was kneeling beside him, with one cheek puffed out and an odd look on her face, an evident trace of displeasure there.

“Evelyn?”

She moved her lips around a bit, then turned her head to the side, brought her open palm up to her mouth, and spat. “Couldn’t do it,” she said, spitting again. “Sorry.”

“I don’t understand. What are you sorry for?”

“I couldn’t swallow, it felt like it was getting stuck in the back of my mouth every time I tried.”

Cullen raised a brow. “I… didn’t even think you would plan on doing that.”

She raised a brow in turn. “Really?” He nodded. “Huh. It’s what the women in the books always do,” she added timidly.

He questioned what he heard, but sensed a more crucial matter at the moment, as she stared into her palm. “Do you want a cloth?”

“Please.” Evelyn took the one he soon offered with her clean hand, putting it to use on her palm and, with its unsullied corners, the sides of her mouth. Afterwards, she bunched it up and placed it aside, then turned her attention back to Cullen. “So, um. How was it?”

He was caught up in drowsiness, an effect more keenly felt by the intensity of his climax, and so gave his voice to the first thought that came to mind: “I think that got rid of my headache.”

She chuckled a second later, though he couldn’t tell if it was from amusement or for a need to make a response. “Well, that’s something.”

But then he realized that that, though true as far as he could tell, didn’t even come _close_ to describing the experience. “Evelyn,” he said, looking at her as he did at him, and told her earnestly, “That was unlike _anything_ I’ve ever felt.”

Her contentment shined in her face, complementing her words. “I’m glad.”

Her hand was back on his thigh, the same spot that made him waver not long ago, causing nothing more than a comforting warmth now. He felt relaxed, so much more at ease with her closeness, a feeling he wished he could envelop around her and share, each of them together in this moment. It was this feeling, saturated with the haziness that usually lured him closer to sleep, that instead pushed him to speak.

“It should be your turn now, shouldn’t it?”

Evelyn’s eyes widened for an instant, before she shook her head and held her hand out as if to keep him at bay. “No, no, tonight is supposed to be just for you. That was the plan.”

“Your plan,” he corrected. “Tonight could be for both of us, if you allow me to try.”

“R-Really, you don’t need to do that.”

“I want to, Evelyn.”

She gnawed at her bottom lip, shifting her gaze around the periphery of eye contact with him, the already prolific flush on her face spreading even further.

“Well,” she huffed, trying to make it seem like she was on the losing side of a dispute – though one she seemed fine with losing. “If you _really_ insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I said there'd be more penis. It only took over two damn months to deliver but here it is! :D
> 
> I hope this is a holiday treat for anyone reading it. And in the spirit of the season, I’m going to promise an update by the new year. And I will feel horrible when I break that promise. LET’S ALL HOPE I DON’T.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised. :) Now let's see if I can actually get this story finished in 2016!

Cullen soon realized that Evelyn’s insistence came purely from some self-imposed model of courtesy, instead of any actual disinterest – something that became apparent in the almost comically brief amount of time it took for his head to end up more or less between her completely bare legs, her pants spirited away as if by magic. Whatever it was exactly that he was about to do, it seemed like something she had been prepared for more time than he had been.

He did not want to think of it as a complaint, not exactly, but he couldn’t deny the fact that positioning this act, within their barebones accommodations, presented more challenges than its equivalent did for Evelyn. She was all tucked away, hidden, something he certainly was not ignorant of but hadn’t really considered until right when he was trying to get his mouth between her legs. If only they had had a bed at their disposal, for her to lie upon with her legs slung over his kneeling form on the floor, or perhaps if she were to kneel herself on the ground, straddling his face as he lay down on his back.

That was an… oddly appealing image, though one he felt best to keep to himself for some reason. For the time being, at least.

So there he was, stomach flat against the ground, legs bent slightly outwards so his feet wouldn’t risk ending up outside of the tent, making him look somewhat like a flattened frog. Evelyn appropriated his pack and its makeshift function, leaning against it as he did earlier, though more slinked down than he had been. Cullen inched back and forth and from side to side, partially to position himself as best as he could guess would be best, and partially to stall. Within the short time it took them to prepare for this, his mind had already wandered back to some facts he considered key: namely, that he had no clue what he was doing, and it would be rather uncomfortable to do this terribly after offering it so enthusiastically. He tried to remind himself of what she had said earlier, that they were both just as new to all this, and so, in truth, whatever he did _would_ be the best she’d ever experienced.

But also the worst. Maker’s breath, why couldn’t his brain leave him alone for now?

“I suppose everything’s all at the ready, then.” _At the ready?_ Was she a squadron about to assault an enemy? Was he _trying_ to sound completely out of his element?

“Sure is,” said Evelyn. “Well, have fun.” A second later, she slapped her hand over her eyes. “I have _no_ idea why I said that.”

“No, I’m sure I will,” he said, as if trying to console her, and somehow becoming convinced that he had to keep going in such an attempt. “I very much enjoy being with you, so I’m sure I’ll enjoy… doing this to… your, ah.” He cleared his throat. “Well.” At that point, he no longer had any desire to stall, because he was certain that his mouth would be better occupied doing absolutely _anything_ besides talking.

Besides, after last night he wasn’t completely in the dark about the more intimate regions of her body; even through the haze of nerves and excitation, he hadn’t missed that one spot closer to her front, which by his hand or hers, seemed to bring her the most satisfaction. With that goal in mind, his body inched closer forward one last time, his fingers spread apart her folds, and his lips pressed against the moist flesh between, sliding up to find, with success, that little nub. He circled his tongue around it, and heard Evelyn make some kind of sound, though it was too quiet to discern exactly what kind. He tried repeating the motion again, experiencing her taste for the first time, trying to place what it reminded him of – something tart, slightly metallic. Whatever it was, it was far from unpleasant, and reciprocation was the principal thought on his mind. So he flicked his tongue.

He heard her that time. She snorted.

“It’s nothing,” she said through a cough, responding quickly to Cullen’s stillness.

Taking her word at face value, he did it again.

And she laughed so strongly that her abdomen seized up, something Cullen could feel in his proximity. He peeked out from between her thighs, noting, even in the dimness and from the strange angle, her absolutely horrified expression. “Is everything all right?”

“Y-Yes, it just.” He heard her fingers tap anxiously on the bedspread. “It _tickles_ ,” she said with a dry voice. “A lot.”

“Huh.” He lay there unmoving, pondering, ruminating over how his perfect plan had backfired so thoroughly. “I, uh… what do you think I should do?”

She shrugged in a way that seemed impulsive rather than intentional, then cleared her throat. “M-Maybe don’t start there?” she suggested, still sounding uncertain of herself.

It was not the most precise advice, certainly leagues away from the step-by-step instructions he impossibly hoped for, but it was advice, and he was glad all the same to have it.

“All right,” he said with a nod, slinking back down. It would be just like last night, then, when he felt around blindly with his fingers, only with a different part of his body at his disposal. And so he approached it just so, using his tongue to explore the contours of her sex, trace the shape of her folds, press into soft and yielding flesh then run against bone beneath, slip into her slit, all the while inundating his senses with her taste.

“Better?” Cullen wondered aloud, receiving a soft “mm-hmm” as her input. He cycled through these exploratory, almost wary motions again, trying to see where pure trial and error could take him. He became a bit bolder with whatever seemed to rouse a pleasant sound from her, and significantly bolder with anything that she told him she liked – anything that must have felt good enough to make her get over her nerves and speak was worth building upon, he assumed.

“Ahh—that, do that,” in a less than steady voice, was emblematic of such speech. To cause that instance, he had begun press her lips against her with a motion none too different from how he kissed her mouth, fully and gently, and in turn drawing her pliant folds in between his lips as if they were her lower lip. He had one hand caressing her hip, the other rested atop her belly, feeling her abdominal muscles flutter to the rhythm of his mouth, finding in her little reflexive reactions a thrill so gratifying that, had she not just brought him to climax, his cock certainly would have been pressing forcibly into the ground at that moment.

Using the whole of his mouth with more abandon made him brush offhandedly against that little knot of flesh that had nearly stopped the act dead in its tracks for him earlier. There was no laughter, no discomfort, to be perceived now, so he licked a whorl right around there. And Evelyn moaned, a deliciously drawn-out noise thrumming low in her throat. That was the sound Cullen wanted her to make, again and again and again.

And again and again he did, with flicks and licks and kisses, all happily welcomed. Still unable to get over the position he’d wriggled into earlier, he slid his hands down under her smooth, firm ass, raising her from the hips downward off from the ground, giving him just the angle he needed to bury his mouth into her heat.

“Does that feel good, Evelyn?” He felt a twinge of excitement crawl up his spine, the hairs on his body standing at attention, at using the same mouth painted with her wetness to say her name.

“Yes,” she answered, providing an even stronger answer when her fingers weaved into his curls with just enough downward force to show her need for more. He willingly ceded to her with a smile that she couldn’t have seen. Less willingly remembering the particulars of the advice he once received in a tavern, he began lapping at her like mad, straying from but always returning to that now-swollen nub, each time causing a tighter hold on his hair and a sound that Evelyn had to force herself, with effort, to subdue. His jaw was beginning to ache, but she told him she was close, so close, and then nothing mattered but getting her closer.

Then he felt her whole body quake in his hands. Her back arched, pushing her further forward against his face, as her thighs trembled on either side of his head. She freed a shaky moan into the back of her hand, as Cullen made a cry of his own, thankfully muffled, as she jerked the hand in his hair back to her, failing to release her grip before doing so.

Evelyn sunk back, eyes closed and one arm slung across her forehead, as her strained lungs slowly brought down their pace. Cullen, seating himself back up, touched his scalp, wincing with a soft sigh as he his fingertips rubbed against the newly-tender skin. That seemed to catch Evelyn’s attention, as did the golden lock in her hand.

“Oh,” she squeaked. She stretched out her open palm towards Cullen. “Uh, I guess this is yours.”

He cleared his throat and, at a loss, picked up the hairs from her hand. “Thank you,” he mumbled, dropping them aside a second later.

“Maker, I’m sorry, it was just felt really, really”—she rolled her eyes up, as if searching for a word—“ _really_ good.”

Cullen tried not to grin in a burst of self-satisfaction, and failed. He took the opportunity to wipe his lips against his hand, obscuring the reaction. “No need to worry. As long as you are satisfied.” As long as he could satisfy her.

She breathed deeply, lying there as serene as anything he’d seen before, as lovely as nothing he’d ever seen before. He reclined beside her, propped up lazily on an elbow, the tiredness that he’d shoved aside for her benefit coming back in full force. His fingers slid up from her thigh and stomach, all prickled with goose flesh, until his hand came to rest upon her ribs, at the border of her still-clothed breasts. He looked her in the face, rosy-skinned and warm, shy but inviting, and, hopeless to do anything else, kissed her deeply.

They broke apart without uttering a word, scrunching their faces up at the interchange of their lips and tongues, to the taste of what each had respectively housed. Thoughts swirled in Cullen’s head about such an embarrassing note to end this on, but Evelyn began to laugh, soon drawing the sound to a volume she had been avoiding this whole time. It drew him along with her, away from the awkward and uncomfortable to the humour of it all, even if he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was so damned funny about it. The laughter built upon itself until Evelyn kissed him, stifling the noise that was possibly stealing well-needed sleep away from the rest of their party, and he kissed her back without a damn, for once able and glad to not give a damn about anything else but her.

 

Cullen gave the saddle’s straps another good tug, setting it steady on his horse, and gave its coal-black mane a pat for its complaisance. For how much of a bother it was hosting the Ibarras, and continuing to host their lady emissary, he couldn’t deny the value of their patriarch’s gift. The twenty mounts, this one among them, possessed exceptional stamina and obedience, supplying an incredible boon to their forces. How such frivolous nobles managed to gift them something with such utility was beyond him, though he supposed they must have found them pretty – something he could at least recognize if not place importance upon.

With the saddling complete, Cullen picked up a nearby sack of oats, walking over to it with less of stumble than the days previous, and offered a heaping handful to the horse, who gladly began to munch away. As he stood there, Cullen turned his attention to the centre of the camp. Evelyn, her hair pulled back in its taut braid and her body covered in riding leathers and some plate, was flitting from person to person, seeing to the smoothness of the preparations for the day’s journey and checking in with everybody personally, one by one. She and a fellow soldier, engaged in a conversation, began to share a laugh, one Evelyn was struggling to break as she moved on to the next member of their escort. Cullen smiled to himself; their Inquisitor had always been a gregarious person, able to integrate the responsibilities of a leader with the camaraderie to be found in the struggle for a common goal – both crucial to morale – but that morning she seemed even more part of the group than usual. He was not the only one to notice.

“Seems like your woman’s in a good mood today.”

Cullen did not need to look to see who had come up beside him. That deep voice could have only belonged to Bull, the exceptionally sharp of the two thorns in the Commander’s side for these two days past. But, with his eyes still focused firmly on Evelyn, he simply said, “It seems so, yes.”

Bull chuckled a most troubling chuckle. “Stuck your face in between her legs, huh? Good man.”

He could feel the blood rush to his face, and an outburst in his throat, ready to be unleashed in a futile attempt to dissuade the Qunari’s behaviour, but it was given no voice. There was a moment’s clarity about that futility, about how his anger would never deter Bull from badgering him because it was exactly that flustered anger that he wanted to see. After slowly exhaling the breath he took in so sharply at the remark, he looked over at Bull, and said with an air of perfect composure, “I did, yes.”

He got a stare in response before any words. “Uh, what was that?”

“Yes, I was intimate with the Inquisitor last night. Does that answer your question or not?”

“I suppose it does, but now I just have more questions about—“

“You should get back to work,” Cullen said, bluntly depriving the sentence of its conclusion. He clapped his hands to remove the dust from the oats, now gone. “And keep these questions to yourself. What happens between the Inquisitor’s legs is my business, not yours.”

Bull, wiping the perplexed look on his face away, sighed and turned on his heel to rejoin the others in camp. “Yeah, fine, this is no fun anymore.”

Cullen remained still and stoic, watching Bull walk away until he started to busy himself with lifting up their heavier supplies into their wagon. Feeling safely ignored, Cullen sighed heavily, feeling his cool determination flee him with the escaping breath. With his legs feeling like they were about to give out after the exertion he had to pour into that act, he supported himself against his horse, making the beast snort.

“Andraste’s mercy,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “Please _never_ make me need to do that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting this whole time to use the Cullenlingus tag. I hope you're all as overjoyed as I am.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schoolwork and depression really make it hard to keep a decent writing schedule, but don't think I've given up on this! I'm happy writing it as long as you guys are happy reading it. :)

In the wake of a morning’s unceasing trek to and through the Western Approach, with the sun rising ever steadily higher, the sight of Griffon Wing Keep in the distance was practically a glimmering beacon, promising much needed respite for the Inquisitor’s party. After crossing a distance that somehow seemed increasingly like it was never going to be closed, by the afternoon they were all behind its rusted iron gates, crumbling sand-coloured stone walls and hodgepodge scaffolding at last.

Evelyn had just finished up tying her mare near a trough, from which it began to gulp down water rapaciously, when Knight-Captain Rylen approached and saluted her. “Inquisitor.” She returned a greeting, but it seemed to have gone unnoticed as Rylen realized who was standing behind her. “Cullen? What are you doing here?”

Cullen, in the midst of leading his own horse to the trough, looked at a loss for words. “Inquisition business,” he said vaguely, finally.

“I would have assumed. Will you be staying?” Cullen nodded in response. Rylen looked as if he were on the brink of another question, but in either a sign of deference to his superior or a lack of desire to push the issue, he changed the subject. “Well, all right. At least we won’t have to get another room ready.” As if reminded, he continued, “Maker’s blessing on your marriage, by the way. That was… unexpected.”

The so-called husband and wife mumbled their gratitude, gladly moving to follow a younger soldier who offered to show them to their room.

Had they not seen the state of the keep beforehand, there would have been nothing in that room to inform them that it was a place that had been readied. From the late afternoon sun that beamed through the hollow in the stone wall, Cullen took stock of the furnishings, first noticing that there were very little of them, and then noticing that there was barely any space left over from what they had occupied. In one corner there stood a simple desk, where an inkwell, pen, candlestick, a few scrolls of parchment, and other small trinkets of higher command resided. Beside it, a tin basin, unfilled, laid on the floor. There was a single row of shelving embedded into one of the walls, of a decent enough size to carry a useful amount of correspondence and the such, though it held absolutely nothing. The only effect of note left to perceive was wedged into the opposite corner: the bed. Their bed, as it were.

Evelyn took a step over to it, if the distance from the door to the bed could truly be called a full step, and put her palms against the bed, shifting the weight of her upper body down into the mattress. “Hm. Soft enough, I guess.”

Cullen let his pack slink from his arm and fall down to the floor, giving it a nudge with his better foot so it would be under the desk and out of the way, then approached Evelyn’s side to give it a similar test. “Should serve us better than the ground, at least.”

“For sleeping, of course.”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other with perfectly straight, perfectly stoic faces, both keeping them for a moment until Cullen snorted, turning his eyes towards the floor and breaking into a smirk. He heard her laugh, returning to see the smiling mouth from which it sprung forth, the corners pressing dimples into rosy cheeks. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing against that little indent.

“It is incredibly difficult not to kiss you right now.”

Evelyn gave him a quick peck on the lips, so quick he didn’t quite react at first, and the same delay seemed to come to her as well. “I, ah,” she said sheepishly, “couldn’t think of anything to say back.”

Neither could he. Her last syllable barely came to life before Cullen’s restraint snuffed itself out. With the passing of a moment, he found himself with her, seated on the edge of that soft-enough bed, tangled together in kisses and tight embraces around far too much leather and chain.

“Your Worship, I have the—“

The untangling then was immediate, though still seconds too late for the moment to exist only between the tangled. The soldier at the threshold – Rylen’s right-hand man, Cullen recognized – stood stunned, clearly unsure of what to do, with a pack of papers in his hands.

“Yes?” said Evelyn, her tone somewhere between professional and curt. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her sleeve made by Cullen’s grasping.

The man threw his attention down at his papers. “I have the scouts’ reports you requested, on the north and southwestern quarries.”

“Excellent. I’ll attend to them in a moment.”

“We’ve yet to receive a report on the southern quarry, but we’re expecting it quite soon.”

Evelyn opened a set of pursed lips to say, “I’ll be _right_ there.”

“Scout Marna also wants to speak with you about a dragon sighting in the…”

His voice dwindled at the stark, wordless stares of the two in front of him, their uniformity almost eerie.

“I’ll, ah,” he said, clearing his throat to regain his previous volume, “I’ll be waiting down the hall. With the repots.” He held them up again as if to prove their existence, then slipped away, closing the door behind him.

Evelyn exhaled, blowing a stray piece of hair in front of her face up into the air before putting it back in its proper place. Cullen saw in her the same mix of relief and embarrassment that he felt at that moment. “Well, I suppose I have a world to save.” She paused. “Or the commercial interests of crucial allies to secure.”

“I’ll just have to await your return, then.”

“I’m sure you can find something to do without me,” she teased. “Reports to write, recruits to train – I bet that old trebuchet we have here desperately needs calibrating.”

A smile crossed his face. It was a wonderful thing to see her at ease, carefree for just a moment when she had so many cares at hand, and for it to spring from being with him made it all the sweeter. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she certainly wasn’t the only one to get a chance to feel like the world wasn’t falling apart.

“I’ll make sure it can hit a fly from across the battlefield by the time you come back.”

“Make it a moving fly and then I’ll be satisfied.”

Evelyn stood up and he followed suit. In the back of his mind he recalled things that had been critical to him, virtuous concepts like self-restraint and abnegation, but seemed to have difficulty digging them out from all the way back there. So he moved in to kiss her again and, as if she could sense that buried piece of Templar discipline he failed to exhume, she put two flat fingers on his lips, stopping him.

“Remember what happened last time?”

Referring to just a few minutes ago, so yes, he did, with some amount of shame. She pulled her hand away. “Let’s save it for when I get back. Maybe we’ll have a night to ourselves.” As she spoke, her eyes slid over to look over at the bed, if only for a second. “We can make it something special.”

Red-faced, she slunk away, making some manner of farewell gesture with her hand as the other opened the door, and then she was out of sight. It was sudden, here one moment and gone the next, but that was probably for the best if they wanted to get anything done after having come all the way here. Cullen brushed the creases in his clothes down, gave himself a moment to divert his thoughts to anything besides what had just put the creases in them, then set out to find that those two soldiers in a mock fight who clearly had never been taught how to use a shield properly. It would work as a distraction from the thought of her coming back, of just what that would entail. Hopefully, it would.

 

“So, how many did you take down?” The Iron Bull’s question came from behind Evelyn, and she could tell it was not directed at her.

“Seven hurlocks and five genlocks,” Varric replied. “That’s… how many points is that again?”

Bull grunted in thought, then answered, “Twenty-six. Not bad. Doesn’t match up to my thirty-five, though.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you have a weapon you can swing around like a maniac. I have to aim my shots, get precise kills.”

Evelyn could have sworn she heard Bull shrug, though she couldn’t have known if he did or not. Maybe by then she just knew that that was the kind of thing he’d shrug at.

“Dead is dead, doesn’t matter how impressively they ended up dead.”

“Not even for that hurlock I shot square between the eyes in the opening of his helmet?” Varric protested. “That should be worth at least double points.”

“Nah, rules are rules. Can’t change ‘em.”

“Says the guy who made the rules.”

Bull let out a deep, single beat of a laugh that Evelyn swore shook the stone beneath them. “Hey, how many did you get?”

She was busy rubbing a charcoal stick over a sheet of paper, making an imprint of some strange markings they found in the quarry that she was sure had to be of interest to somebody. As she was making a record of the last one, she realized that, this time, the question actually was directed at her.

“I wasn’t keeping track,” she answered, taking a closer look at her paper to make sure all of the rubbings were satisfactorily done. It would’ve been an awful waste of time if a scholar found one bad smudge that would have turned them into useless scribbles.

“Again?” said Bull, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything.

They had played the same game at the Varghest and Venatori-riddled quarries too, with some of the other soldiers in their party joining along. Evelyn hadn’t shown interest once, much to their combined chagrin.

She got up off her knees, shaking the dust off of her leather pants, and rolled up the paper into her bag. “I was just focusing on staying alive.”

“You _do_ know you’re already really good at that, right? As in anyone else in your shoes would have been dead a dozen times already?” said Varric. He began to follow her along the spiralling trail out of the stony pit. “Might as well make it interesting.”

She shrugged, adding some affectation to her voice as she said, “Don’t you find seeing a task through with diligence plenty interesting?”

Bull groaned. “You’re no fun, boss. You know that?”

Evelyn decided against taking any offense at that, and simply continued soldiering their way on out of the quarry. With all three of the Royal Antivan Trading Company’s threatened quarries made free of their threats and given sufficient guards to keep them that way, their task in the Western Approach had been seen through, and diligently at that. She recalled her little quip at the war table about the job taking no more than an afternoon, and her estimations weren’t actually that far off. They would be able to return to the keep by night – quite late night, perhaps, but by all expectations it still wouldn’t have spilled into the next day.

And she was very much looking forward to returning that night.

So she tried not to act impatient when they had reached the nearest camp on the way back, when everyone started clamoring for food and rest for their tired feet. Far from someone who would implement a forced march on her troops just to get herself into a shared bed, she relented quite easily, feeling a trace of a rumble in her stomach anyway. Besides, the camp had been set up in the shadow of a grand, rust-coloured cliff, and getting away from the sun and the heat was more than welcome.

While eating a crusty piece of bread smeared liberally with honey, she hurriedly wrote up a report for the day’s successful activities, knowing that getting it done sooner would leave valuable time free for later. Her multitasking made it necessary to brush crumbs away several times from the parchment, but meant that she was done with both tasks rather quickly. She dated the page “Guardian 11” and began to ruffle through her back for the rubbings so she could attach them to the report.

There was a noise, both unfamiliar and yet impossible for her to place, some kind of oddly-rhythmed thrumming. Whatever it was, it made a silence fall over the camp; if anybody recognized the sound, nobody spoke up to comment upon it. It had felt like it was coming from all around her at first, until she heard the click-click-click of a stone tumbling down against rock. She realized it was coming from her side, and turned to look at the cliff, raising her eyes upward. She got a good look for what only could have been a second, for the next second the massive winged form leapt off from the precipice and shot arrow-straight overhead of the camp, bolting across the dunes in the opposite direction and out of everyone’s sight. The force of its flight whipped up a mighty gust, blowing sand and dirt all about, setting one side of a tent loose from its stakes, knocking several people off of their feet, and snatching Evelyn’s reports hopelessly out of her reach.

“Dragon!” someone shouted, announcing what the entire party’s eyes had been glued to.

Evelyn rushed to her feet to help out one of the soldiers who had fallen down, making sure she and everyone else was all right. Thankfully the only thing anyone suffered was shock. Everyone was muttering, making an overlapping, indistinct noise of awe and alarm, but then there was one voice that was crystal clear.

“We’re fighting her, right?” the Iron Bull, now standing beside her, asked with an expression of abysmally-contained excitement painted across his features. “Tell me we’re fighting her, boss!”

Crossing her arms, Evelyn exhaled. “All right, let’s start coming up with a plan.”

“I take it all back, boss,” said Bull, now with absolutely no containment of his delight. “I knew you were fun all along.”

“I’m merely taking into account how having a dragon roaming around the area could undo all of the work we just did securing resources for the Inquisition—”

“Okay, okay, stop ruining this.”

Electing to follow the order for the sake of the Iron Bull’s morale, she turned the conversation to strategy and supplies, meticulously making sure everything was accounted for despite Bull’s consistent insistence that they were completely prepared and just had to get going already. With a plan ready to be put in motion and scouts sent ahead for tracking, she accepted that she wasn’t going to return to Griffon Wing Keep that night.

 

Cullen accepted that she wasn’t going to return to Griffon Wing Keep that night.

Well, no, not entirely. There was still the thought buzzing around his head that she would come in through the door at any moment, everything done and dealt with that needed doing and dealing with. That was unlikely, since she knew as well as he the risks of travelling so late in the night and was probably huddled around a warm fire or fast asleep in a tent.

He flipped over to his other side and pulled the blanket back over him, trying to keep everything covered. With how hot it was during the day, he hadn’t expected the night to become so cold, and so quickly at that. He also wouldn’t have thought that after sharing Evelyn’s makeshift bed with her for two nights would have made her absence so pronounced, and it was for more than just the lack of her heat, as welcome as that would have been. There was no weight to hold in his arms, no steady sound of breath to lull him to sleep, no sense that he would wake up with her beside him.

It wasn’t worth dwelling on; with their roles the way they were, this would be the case for many nights to come, perhaps so many that they seemed without end, so he’d better get used to it. To that end, he flipped over again, adjusting the blanket once more, and let himself slump into the mattress, deciding to focus on that instead. It was a serviceable bed, certainly nothing to complain about, many notches below her mattress back at Skyhold, through still several notches above her sofa. Though, for the “something special” that Evelyn was looking forward to, it still probably wouldn’t be her first choice. In fact, as his eyes wandered around the moonlit room, there was nothing that declared it a place for anything “special” to transpire. Even by his admittedly apathetic standards, it was just drab – almost depressing in its blankness. He felt a bit guilty for making Evelyn settle for a place of pure utility, far removed from the scented candles, Orlesian wine and rose petals that she’d told him she’d pictured to have for her first time.

Cullen paused as those items ran through his mind. Candles. Wine. Petals. Would that be enough for even this room? What would she think if—

No, no, it was a stupid thing to even think about. He would be hard-pressed to find all of that in any average market, much less in a fortress in the middle of the Western Approach.

But he wondered, and flipped over one more time.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm on a roll for once! Thank you all for sticking with my horrible updating gaps, it really encourages me to keep going. :)
> 
> On a side note, I've really been itching to start filling another prompt (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15543.html?thread=58882743) and, if anyone cares, I wanted to see if anyone was interested, especially since it would split my already lacking attention to this story. Just a curiosity.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The tracking took days, with so little success that Evelyn was on the verge of giving up on their circular hike through the desert, but Bull would not hear of it. They did find something though, a sight almost as unexpected as a dragon: an Orlesian draconologist, Frederic of Serrault, camped in the Approach, pretty much doing what they were, but to a decidedly academic end. The relationship that emerged quickly became mutually beneficial, with the frail, somewhat foppish scholar providing the details of vital dirty work to be carried out by a more able-bodied party. After a day of easier but still time-consuming tracking, they returned to with sacks of phoenix tail feathers and fresh quillback intestines, the latter of which put a stench into Evelyn’s gloves she was sure she’d never be fully rid of. They camped for the night, and by morning Frederic was ready with a great, stinking trap and the certainty that it would work. They brought it to the instructed place and, as testimony to the man’s impressive academic titles, soon saw the beast barreling down out of the sky.

And they, as the Iron Bull so eloquently put it, “kicked her scaly ass into next week.”

He continued along that line of speech and enthusiasm as they made their way back to the keep, happily hauling a cart overloaded with much of what they could scavenge, with Frederic’s expert help, and carry: hide, bone, webbing, vials of blood, even cuts of flesh. There was so much of use that they’d have to send back a team to gather the rest of the corpse, before the scavengers, animal or otherwise, got to it first.

When they were all through the gates, their spoils on display for all to see, the stationed soldiers gathered around, cheering and hollering for the breadth of the Inquisitor’s success. It may have been that Bull’s goading was what really got them all riled up, but in any case, there were calls to bring out the good rations and ale to celebrate, and so party was both planned and started in the same moment. The shift in the mood drew Evelyn in, but not enough so; once the others’ attention for her ran thin, she crept away, dashing up to the battlements and finding her way back to her quarters – the only place she could imagine Cullen to be.

She opened the door, ready to greet him, and found nobody. Though there was not a complete absence in front of her; the room had greeted her instead. She stepped in, her eyes drawn to the shelf lodged in the wall and the stony sill of the room’s simple window, spots that were once bare, but were no longer.

Careful rows of candles – all long, thin and creamy-white – stood like an army at attention wherever they could be placed, it seemed. With nobody to keep a watch over them, they illuminated nothing, but they were still a striking sight all the same, and certainly would have made a wondrous glow all together. After removing her gloves for fear of contaminating anything with their filth, she plucked one off from the desk, confirming its material through its waxy texture. It was not one of the candles she’d seen on this very desk a couple days back. That one was tallow, the kind that reeks like grease frying, not like the scentless wax all around her.

Putting the candle back in its place, making sure it would be just where she found it, Evelyn noticed the desk’s other new residents: a tinted glass bottle with no label or marking to tell her what it was, and a pair of tin cups, the same kind she always brought with her on missions. She decided to leave the contents of the bottle a mystery, seeing as she seemed to have walked in on the scene prematurely, but didn’t stop inspecting the rest of the room anyhow. Turning around, the bed beckoned her next, and how could it have not? Its drab sheets had been strewn with flecks of colour, vivid purples and yellows and even spots of white that looked rich against its dull background. When she approached, she realized that they were flower petals. She picked one up to inspect it: a roundish, violet petal with its borders curling inwards. It took her a moment, but she recognized its source, knowing it and all the others to have come from the wildflowers that sprouted irregularly in the keep’s courtyard, always accompanied by patchy little beds of grass. She put it back, soaking in again the sight of all those petals thrown about while letting herself bask in the feel of the room, in its warmth, its charm, its romance. It felt a bit embarrassing to think of, but what else could the scene be called but romantic?

The only thing missing from the scene was its most important piece: the man who put it all together.

Evelyn was about to head out of the room, and had even begun to argue with herself if she should pretend she hadn’t seen it so he could surprise her with it, when her eyes caught a final part of the room that had not been there before. On the pillow, there was a letter, neatly folded, with her name written on it. She picked it up, unfurled it, and read:

_Evelyn,_

_I know these are not substitutes for the lavender candles, sparkling wine and roses you would have wanted, but I was hoping they would please you all the same. Unfortunately, I will not be able to find out if they will._

_I apologize. A scout finally caught up with us, bearing word from your other advisors, as well as from Cassandra. They are, for obvious reasons, not pleased with my sudden disappearance from Skyhold. As much as I would like to be here when you return, my duties call me back, and I cannot eschew them. I pray you’ll understand._

_I love you immensely. I look forward to meeting up with you again at Skyhold._

_Yours,_

_Cullen Rutherford_

It hadn’t been much time since she had been charged and lashed at by a dragon larger than a house, but somehow discovering Cullen’s absence now felt like a bigger blow than anything she’d taken on that battlefield. She plunged back-first onto the bed with a sorry groan, the bittersweet message held up over her head, taunting her and soothing her with its words at the same time. When the disappointment had passed, or at least lessened marginally, Evelyn took to rereading the first line a few times, wondering what in the Maker’s name he meant by those items that she “would have wanted.”

Then it hit her, another blow to her already battered psyche, what she had told him during their first night together, the little joke she made to try and ease the tension. He hadn’t realized it was just a joke, no – he’d taken her for her word, going through the trouble of fulfilling it as best as he possibly could, all because he thought it was what she wanted.

She rested the letter against her lips, closed her eyes, and swore to herself: she would never let him think otherwise.

 

Two days later, the party that had set out from Skyhold was almost in reach of it once more, using the extra time they’d gained from taking the inland route to settle in for the night. The camp was rather full of chatter and laughter, more than one might expect from such a small group. As they were riding through the area, Evelyn had recognized the spot where Cullen had set their tent for that first night, where he had undressed her for the first time, where she lay nervous but eager in his bare arms, where he touched her like she had never been touched by another person before.

Such thoughts were not making her continued lack of him any easier.

There was another chuckle, and again Evelyn tried to ignore it. But the distraction from her rewriting her report, the one that the dragon had so rudely spirited away from her (the perhaps disproportionate revenge taken aside), was beginning to wear on her nerves. From the few seconds she had looked up from her work, too curious not to, she had gathered that the Iron Bull had begun to pass around a sheet of paper, intermittently rousing wide eyes, red faces, and laughter from its various readers. She had some suspicions that the laughter was directed at her, just from a suspicion that _all_ laughter had been directed at her as of late. But she knew that if she _was_ the subject of some manner of ridicule, nothing would please some choice members of her party more than a Cullenesque reaction to it, so she stayed tight-lipped and stolid.

“Andraste’s flaming tits!” Varric exclaimed, a moment after finally getting his turn, as it seemed. “I couldn’t write something this filthy if I _tried_.”

“What can I say?” Bull said proudly, without the self-effacing shrug that generally accompanied the phrase. “I’m just that good.”

“All right,” said Evelyn suddenly, slamming her quill down flat on her writing board. She was not as good at the tight-lipped, stolid act as she thought, evidently. “What did you write?” she accused Bull. “What are you all looking at?”

“Nothing and a poetic jewel,” Bull answered her questions in order, adding nothing else.

“Here, Freckles.” Varric offered Evelyn the paper. “I think I could use a breather.”

Evelyn took hold of it cautiously, as if whatever had been etched into its surface had rendered the material caustic to the touch. Finding that her fingerprints had not been burnt away at mere contact, she began to read.

And she got as far as the words “you awaken the quivering font of my womanhood” before she had to get it out of her eyesight.

“What the hell is this?”

“I’ve been calling them lust letters,” Bull boasted. “You know, like love letters, but—“

“I get it, I get it.” Evelyn shoved the page away from her, longing to put as much distance between it and her as possible. It was about to re-enter Varric’s willing hands, but did not. Something caught Evelyn’s eye before it could: a signature of three initials, written in the same snaky script as the astonishingly filthy poem that preceded them.

“GFI,” she muttered aloud. “Who is GFI?”

“A satisfied woman with a rave review,” Bull replied. “Or did you want a name? Hrmph, didn’t take you for the nosy type, boss.”

“I am not—“ Evelyn began to protest, but held her tongue; it _was_ a nosy question, even when aimed at someone as uncomfortably open about his sexual conquests as the Bull. “It… just reminds me of something, that’s all.”

But what it was, she could not place. She focused all of her attention on the initials, trying to decipher them, trying to determine where she had seen them before, if ever – she was beginning to think she was losing her mind and this sequence of letters actually had nothing of significance to reveal to her. With an enthusiasm fueled only by an incomprehensible need to know the letter’s author, Evelyn dared to scan the text once more for some kind of hint. Combing through sensual pleas, colourful metaphors, and details about the Iron Bull’s anatomy that she never had any desire to know of, eventually revealed a curious phrase.

“El mío Toro de Hierro,” she said aloud, guessing at the pronunciation as best as she could. “What is this, Antivan?”

“For the Iron Bull, even has the definite article,” Bull clarified, following up with a wistful sort of groan at the thought. “The way she can roll those r’s with that tongue, mmm. You know what else she can do with—“

“No. Do not tell me what Lady…” Evelyn’s words trailed off as her eyes trailed back to those initials, scanning them one after another, again and again. “No,” she whispered to herself, “that’s crazy.” But she knew whom those initials belonged to.

GFI. Graciela Fermina Ibarra.

“ _Graciela?_ ” she nearly barked. “Not Graciela, _right_?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” said Bull, so trivially that it was clear he had no qualms about revealing her identity and just wanted to drag Evelyn into his guessing game.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

Evelyn, dumbstruck for the moment and aware of the audience she had for this conversation, got up to her feet, caring not where her writing board and report ended up but keeping the dirty letter firm in her grip. “May I speak with you.” It was not a question.

She pointed vaguely in the direction of some trees, denoting a need for privacy. The Iron Bull casually stood up and followed her until they were both out of earshot from the camp. Even so, Evelyn spoke in a low hiss.

“If you are completely, absolutely, utterly serious, _what were you thinking_? You know she’s the daughter of one of our most important trading partners, right? You know her father is extremely influential, right?”

“And you know she’s a person who can make her own choices, right?” Bull responded, apparently in an attempt to defuse her. Given the look on her face, it was not successful. “Look, boss, she heard some rumours, came to me personally, asked very nicely to ride the Bull”—Evelyn cringed —“and, yeah, maybe you noticed she’s not my usual type, though she’s not as snooty as she looks. But I give to those who need.”

“Yes, of course, your philanthropic deeds are known far and wide.” At the time, Evelyn was too flustered to consider the uncharacteristic sarcasm that painted her words. “I’m certain Ser Fermin Ibarra would laud your generosity until the end of his days, and he’d start by ending our alliance.”

Evelyn held her head in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of the thoughts buzzing around her skull. Some of those thoughts were escaping through her mouth, being mumbled into her palms: this is a bad nightmare, or he’s just extremely dedicated to the joke. This made no sense. She saw no point in trying to understand Bull’s reasoning in the people he slept with, but hadn’t Graciela accosted Cullen, more than once, to the point of threatening him with blackmail to show him how serious she was about what she wanted?

Her thoughts consumed her so much that she almost didn't hear Bull say, "Hey, despite what all the letters would suggest, it was only the one time, if that makes it any better.”

“No, that doesn’t make it better—“ She stopped herself. No, it was too reflexive to say she did it herself, more like an idea made her stop, made her need to redirect this discussion.

“Okay,” Bull huffed, “then it was twice.”

“Are you saying,” Evelyn began, holding the letter up in front of him and ignoring what he said, “that there are more of these?”

“Tons. That one’s a personal favourite.”

“I need you to give them to me,” she told him, her voice clear and unwavering. “As soon as we get back to Skyhold.”

Bull raised a brow. “Really? I know you know they’ve got books just full of this kind of stuff in that seedy corner of the library.”

“I need hers,” insisted Evelyn. “All of them.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY it's been so bonkers lately but forget about that let's just get to the fun part now YAY

“Has that shipment of Everite come in yet?”

“While you were away, Commander. It was sent immediately to the smiths, as you requested.”

“Good. Harton, any news from Crestwood?”

“The reconstruction efforts are nearly complete. They’ll have fifty able-bodied recruits at Caer Bronach by the end of the month.”

“Excellent – alert me if anything is needed.”

Cullen hadn’t even had time to remove his plate before being thrust back into his duties, seeing one person after another in his office one day after another. He was thankful for a number of reasons: one, the meetings assured him that those immediately beneath him in the hierarchy were trained well enough to keep the Inquisition from completely following apart in his poorly thought-out absence; two, he had so much to keep himself occupied that neither Josephine, Leliana, nor Cassandra dared to take him away from his work to tell him what they thought about that poorly thought-out absence; and three, as had been the case before, Lady Ibarra still seemed to lack the boldness to approach him while he was surrounded. He had noticed her a few times – sipping coffee or chatting with another noble or some other activity in this vein – when a task required his movement through the keep, but there was no more contact than between their eyes, which he also made every effort to avoid.

Then long into the nights, once some candles’ wicks were burnt all the way down to nothing, his office emptied itself, falling into a respite before another day of occupation. Cullen would head up to the Inquisitor’s quarters, making absolutely sure to lock the threshold between privacy and unwanted guests, throw a log in the hearth to ward off the room’s chill, change his clothes, and settle into Evelyn’s (or was it really his too now?) bed, giving him far more space than he needed even when he tried to take up as much space as possible. Despite how weary his daily back-to-back duties left him, he still had trouble clearing his mind sufficiently for sleep, and trying to distract himself from Inquisition matters inevitably led to him thinking of the Inquisitor instead. The thought was no better at lulling him – worse, perhaps – but it could be dealt with quite readily, and so would eventually lead him to drowsiness, then finally rest.

Then it was back to work, continuous and uninterrupted, until she returned.

“Get that report to me first thing in the morning,” he said to one of his subordinates as he herded them all towards the door, where Evelyn was standing with a stack of papers in her hands and a restlessness in her limbs like she was about to burst. After they were all through, having quickly given their regards to their Inquisitor, Cullen bolted the door behind him and held open his arms to her. “Evelyn—“

“Graciela rode the Bull,” she blurted out, cutting him clear off. “Twice, maybe more, I don’t know if he’s telling the truth about that but he is about this. She’s been sending him these filthy letters”—her hand came down on the papers, making them crinkle—“and I know far too much about Bull now, but he gave them to me. We have them!”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” said a half-stunned Cullen, holding his hands up as if to literally stop her. “What are you talking about?”

She repeated herself, this time with elaborations and the occasional breath, handing the papers over to Cullen to peruse for himself. After scanning the first few lines, assuming that the rest of the letters would proceed similarly, he returned his attention to the woman who delivered them to him.

“I can’t say I understand why you brought these to me.”

“Don’t you see?” she said, nudging at him with words but clearly not getting the words she wanted in return. “If she wants to blackmail us…”

Cullen then felt the weight of the letters in his hands, their potential dawning upon him. “We blackmail her back.”

Evelyn nodded repeatedly, a stray lock of hair at her brow bobbing along with her, as an almost giddy grin crossed her mouth. There was something – Cullen had to think of the word to describe it – a little unnerving about seeing her filled with so much glee at the prospect of ruining someone else’s reputation, but he shoved the feeling aside. Graciela obviously hadn’t thought twice about doing the same to them, so what guilt should he feel about copying her tactics? Even beyond the matter of her deserving it – which she very well did, in his opinion – this route would likely force both sides in a stalemate, eliminating any repercussion against the Inquisition from this gaffe getting out. It was as close to perfect as they could probably get.

“Well, I don’t think we can take any action for now.” Although he had entirely lost track of what time it was, the near-blackness outside his window indicated that it was definitely too late to bother any of their guests, no matter how much of a bother they were.

“I suppose we have to adhere to visitation formalities, even if it’s to threaten to drag someone’s name through the dirt,” said Evelyn, with a knowing sigh.

Cullen smiled, her tone taking himself away with it, as it was apt to do. “Thank the Maker we won’t be breaking any codes of etiquette with our blackmailing.”

“Well, I am nobility, after all,” she announced, putting on her best airs. “And we nobles must always be certain to do these underhanded deeds properly.”

They shared a laugh, their disparate voices mingling together, filling the air with a sound much richer than its separate parts would ever be, then fading away into quiet – but only for a moment.

“I missed you,” Cullen told her.

Evelyn tossed her gaze off to the side and began to fiddle with her cuff, as if embarrassed, but Cullen could see the contentment in her features at his words. It made him even gladder for having said them to her.

“I’ve only been away a couple of days,” she said.

“It feels like longer than a couple of days.” Since he last kissed her. “More like weeks.” Since he last felt her skin against his own. “Or months.” Since he last tasted her.

With those thoughts halfway to taking over his mind, he saw Evelyn’s outstretched hand offered to him.

“Well,” she said quietly, “what are we waiting for?”

And, fittingly, he didn’t wait to take her hand into his, keeping their windfall in the form of letters secure beneath his arm as they made their way, as leisurely as they could bear to make it look, to their quarters.

 

It was an incredibly simple gesture, one much more innocent than anything either of them had at the forefront of their minds in that moment, but Evelyn felt something incomparable as she walked alongside him, hand in hand. There was a security in it, a quiet reciprocity in having to match their gaits to one another, something intensely, incomprehensibly intimate about something they could more-or-less freely do in public. It felt silly to admit it to even herself, but maybe it was this, even above everything else, that assured her that this was real. That she was his lover.

Maybe even that she was his wife.

 “I saw what you did for me,” she said as they were near the end of the staircase, far beyond anyone else’s ears. “Back at Griffon Wing Keep, I mean.”

Cullen looked like he was about to give into impulse and rub the back of his neck, but, with both hands occupied, gave up and simply adopted a sheepish look. “Ah, well,” he cleared his throat, “i-it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I didn’t have time to clean it up before I had to leave…”

“Cullen, it was the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she said, and meant it. “Truly.”

His grip on her hand became firmer then, not to the point of restraint, but only to say to her what he could not produce with words. She gave him a squeeze back as her own reply.

At the top of the stairs, they had to pull apart out of necessity, to open the door and lock it behind them, to spark some light into the dark and empty room, to find a safe place to let the letters rest for the night, to do all the little nagging things in the way of them being alone and free to do as they wanted. As they had both been wanting to.

Evelyn finally slid into his embrace, as eager as he seemed to be to feel a lover’s touch, even if only a few days was really all that had stood between that. With her arms slung around his neck, Cullen ran a hand along her side, making her shiver the lower he went, drawing himself closer to her still. Then he stopped. She heard an audible sniff, followed by a little noise of displeasure, followed still by a gasp of her own.

“Oh, Maker,” she griped, pulling back her hands to cover her shamed face and stepping away from him, realizing the result of her near-continuous travel back. “I stink.”

“It’s, ah…” Cullen’s eyes darted around uncertainly for a second. “Y-Yes, a little.”

A polite understatement. She remembered at that moment the awful humidity that hounded her the day prior, infusing her clothes with sweat until cloth and leather and skin were all stuck together. Changing out of those clothes obviously had not helped. “Ugh, I need a bath first.”

He nodded, perhaps unintentionally, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “All right. I’ll just have to wait for you a bit longer, then.”

She perceived a spark in Cullen’s eyes as he said that, as he looked with eagerness up and down her body, getting a feel for it, reminding himself of what he would be waiting for. It roused in her a stronger blush than her embarrassment had produced, and a train of thought. She was sick of waiting, and despite the patience in his words there was nothing of the sort in how he looked at her, so why wait any longer?

“Cullen?”

He looked up, finding once more an open hand extended to his seated form, and the slightest of smirks on Evelyn’s reddening face.

“Would you care to join me?”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My update schedule is impeccable what are you talking about? And I don't get anxious that the smut I write is going to be terrible no sirree.

Soft waves of steam rose from the marble bathtub, adding to the budding heat of the small, contained room that stood adjacent to the Inquisitor’s more general quarters. The mist carried with it the bath oil’s sweet scent. It was one that seemed familiar to Evelyn but just could not be placed, although lacking the knowledge made it no less pleasant to the senses. As if that wasn’t enough, the cloudless sky held its moon in just the right position to flood the room with moonlight through its solitary window, to chance meetings with the warmer light of the ensconced candles about the walls. The sight alone should have been pure relaxation, an invitation to quiet and solitude, but, at her own suggestion, she was not alone.

It had still been awfully quiet, though.

“I didn’t even know this was here, actually,” said Cullen, with an oddly self-conscious tone to the remark.

Evelyn wasn’t sure if she should have pinned it on his not knowing about this little nook, or for what was about to transpire in said nook. As it so happened, fooling around together a couple times had not miraculously absolved the two of them of any and all the anxiety and awkwardness that came with their blossoming intimacy. It would have been awfully nice it had, though.

“I feel bad sometimes,” she replied, her gaze focused intently on the still water in front of her. “Having this all to myself up here, and I’m barely even here to use it.”

“When you put it that way, it does seem like a poor allocation of our resources.”

“Mm-hmm.”

More silence. A tad more guilt.

“But, ah.” Cullen cleared his throat. “You won’t have it all to yourself today, at least.”

Evelyn smiled, and found herself able to finally bring her eyes back to him. “Well, that makes me feel a bit less selfish.”

She began to remove her clothes with a certain deliberation, allowing herself to go through the motions near-automatically once she noticed that Cullen had started to do the same. It was certainly less intimate, and maybe even less fun, to do this herself after having done it for one another back in the tents, but the distance had its benefits at the time – in her rank state, closeness needed to wait until she was at least immersed in the water.

“So how do we think we should go about this?” she asked, with a casualness that seemed at odds with the jumble of clothes at her feet. Apparently, logistical concerns were able to trump her nervousness, for the time being.

“Hm?” Cullen’s eyes shot up to Evelyn’s, then back down to the shirt that he was still holding in his hands. “Ah, sorry, I was…”

She took a quick look down herself. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, as far as she could tell without making obvious that she was looking for something out of the ordinary, but she did suddenly feel, as was appropriate, totally naked.

“Is something wrong?”

“What? No, Maker, no,” he insisted. “No, it’s just… I hadn’t seen you like this yet. In the light and all. I-I mean, the lighting’s not that great, but it’s better than we had in the tent, and I—“ He stopped to take a breath, and afterwards spoke clearly and deliberately. “You look… incredible.”

In a kind of kneejerk reaction, she put her hands together at her waist and turned her eyes downward, involuntarily fixing up her posture. As her sight returned up, she got the same decently lit (but, as he said, not great) look at him that he got of her. By moonlight and candlelight alike, she saw the careful curve of his muscles, seemingly no less defined for his more deskbound appointment, from his shoulders and chest sculpted by the sword and shield, down to legs that had clearly spent their time supporting a man decked out in full armour. It was not as if she had anyone to compare him to, but even so, her instinct told her that he was an exceptional sight.

“You do, too.” And while his shirt, still absentmindedly hanging from his grip at waist-level, afforded him much more decency than Evelyn’s curiosity wanted to put up with, her words, plain as they were, were earnest.

She noticed Cullen take a quick glance at himself, perhaps from the same jolt of self-consciousness that caused her to do the same a moment earlier. To her relief, it reminded her that, in these matters, they were still both in the same boat. Or the same bathtub, as it was about to be.

At her invitation, a slight but clear hand gesture, Cullen discarded the remnants of his outfit and took a step into the water. The look on his face told her that the temperature was agreeable, but it was impossible to keep her attention on his face when there were so many other options available to her, all so very agreeable. Once he had settled in, obscuring what she was staring at, he gave his hand for her to take. For a moment the image of a handsome man with golden curls entreating her to bathe with him, her idea or not, delayed both action and coherent thought. But still her hand was guided into his grasp, and her body followed, leading one foot after another into water so warm that the rest of her skin prickled, compelled to realize the comparable chill that it was in. Her heart thumping, excitement barrelling headfirst from her mind to every inch of her body, Evelyn turned away so her back faced Cullen, and managed to lower herself rather gracefully into the bath and into his embrace.

And then she stopped. It was not of her own volition.

She was stuck, caught still between a pair of bent legs already spread apart as far as the marble encircling them would allow.

“Is… is the tub not big enough?” Cullen asked, having noticed Evelyn’s subtle (or so she thought) squirming, to no effect.

“N-No, I just have to… maybe…” muttered Evelyn, who had not taken into account that the bathtubs in the books must have been much larger, or the more sedentary ladies much tinier.

She continued to mumble as she struggled more openly, wriggling with more and more effort, as she urged her body into a tight space with every little trick that being forced into corsets and impractical dresses had taught her. Finally, _finally_ , she slipped down and hit the stony bottom with an unpleasantly harsh thud, forcing water over the brim as the rest of her took its place. Her mind immediately made comparisons to the last bath she had taken, in the river on their way to the Western Approach. It was cold, true, and it had spirited away the clothes she was washing along with herself, but it was as free and open as she could imagine, giving it a lot more clout to throw around in comparison.

“There,” said Evelyn, with an audible exhale, followed by an inhale deep enough to make her feel even more trapped. “Just big enough.”

Cullen made a small, and not very convincing, noise of agreement. Well in need of something else to draw their attention to, Evelyn grabbed the washcloth and bar of soap, thankfully within her reach, and worked up a decent lather. She was putting the soap aside when the cloth was eased, with a bit of hesitation, from her fingers.

“I should, ah, probably do this, right?” he asked, sounding perhaps just a sliver more than half-sure. Evelyn responded with a sound that, in her head, seemed to be an enthusiastic yes, but may have very well been something more akin to a stifled squeak.

The enthusiasm was there, whatever the case, and understood. Cullen began at the nape of her neck, brushing her hair over her shoulder and out of the way, and worked his way down her back. He employed the soapy cloth with neither too much nor too little force, tracing methodical lines into her skin. The rhythm it quickly took pulled Evelyn into a lull, one that for the time eased, even if it did not erase, the anxieties that their still-fledgling intimacy presented to her. It was a curious sensation to Evelyn, to be at such ease while her heart fluttered so. Curious, but not the least bit unpleasant. That calming repetition was interrupted when cascade of bathwater trailed down her back, raised up then and a few times after by Cullen’s cupped hands.

“That feels nice.” Released from that reverie, if only for the moment, she felt the need to say something – even if it was vague, trite, and honestly made her feel a bit silly for having said it.

Cullen reached the cloth around to her front, to attend to her abdomen. “I’m glad,” he replied. And, for however vague, trite, and embarrassing Evelyn thought her little remark was, he genuinely _did_ sound glad to hear it.

“You’re good at this.” With the soft little circles he was making on her stomach, gradually moving up, she wasn’t overly concerned with how stupid that sounded.

“I _have_ had baths before.” He paused, and quietly cleared his throat. “Just… never with a beautiful woman.”

It was a good save, she couldn’t deny that. And even if it was just something to smooth over the silly thing he blurted out, there was a fire in his voice, with a warmth that had the potential to rival the water around their bodies. And Cullen, the cloth in his hands now firm against the underside of Evelyn’s chest, appeared to be more than eager to stoke that fire.

No more than a second later were his lips on her nape, kissing the skin that he had so affectionately washed himself in moments past. The washcloth dropped into the water with a distinct plunk, discarded to give himself free rein over her breasts. The suddenness of it all made Evelyn gasp, but the sound did not dissuade Cullen from his actions, and rightly so. It seemed that what few opportunities they’d had to explore each other so intimately had been enough to teach him that the sound signalled no objection to his touch. After all, there was nothing for her to object to.

His hands did not remain in place, instead straying all over her soap-slippery skin, rousing sounds out of her throat when her most sensitive skin felt his fingers, his palms, whatever brushed against her. Once he pressed against her middle, somehow – almost impossibly in the space they occupied – he brought her body closer into an even tighter embrace. His mouth did not stay anchored in place either; kisses dotted the side of her neck and her shoulder (perhaps he truly did mean to kiss every freckle on her body), then back up the path they took down, until his lips were on her earlobe – a part of her she had never been able to appreciate the sensitivity of until that very moment. She couldn’t keep herself composed any longer, not with his hands on her breasts and his breath on her ear and his cock against her back.

“Cullen.”

“Mm?” the sound thrummed low against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that had to pass before she could speak again.

 “Touch me,” Evelyn beseeched him in her need. Before he could say or do anything else, she turned her neck to bring her mouth to his, giving her the deep kiss she’d wanted so badly that even his scratchy stubble was a welcome sensation just because it was _him_.

Caught up to the rhythm of her kiss, Cullen slipped one hand down, with more restraint than her slippery skin and his unexpected boldness should have allowed, giving time enough for Evelyn’s anticipation to mount. Seconds later, _finally_ , his fingers were past her navel, further, further down in a steady descent, her kisses getting clumsier with the excitement of having his hand on the precipice of prying her thighs open to…

Cullen stopped at once, not because he wanted to, and not because Evelyn wanted him to (Maker forbid!), but because he could not. If the bathtub had not demonstrated clearly enough earlier that its dimensions would not fit the both of them, it made itself perfectly clear by clamping Evelyn’s thighs tight together when they desperately wanted to be apart. With them in between Cullen’s cramped legs, her own were near immobile, forcing her into quite possibly the most uncomfortable, frustrating, and ironic chastity belt in existence.

 “Well, ah…” Cullen muttered. “That’s... a complication.” He tapped his knuckles against the impenetrable cleft between Evelyn’s thighs, presumably in an apprehensive tic instead of a belief that they’d politely open up upon knocking.

It was time to make a call on the situation. Despite initial difficulties, the bathtub had shown both promise and favorable progress (as well as cleanliness), still to become a lost cause in the end. Evelyn could insist that they stay put, stubbornly abiding to the plan that she had laid out, struggling to the point of attrition to make reality conform to her ideal notions of how this rendezvous was supposed to play out.

Or she could swallow her pride, have them initiate a strategic retreat, recoup their losses, and withdraw to more favourable fields.

“We should move this to the bed, shouldn’t we?”

And her Commander showed no objections to his Inquisitor’s plan of action.

Getting out presented problems similar to getting in, but with the effort and enthusiasm well at their disposal, they freed themselves of the tub that had dampened skin and fantasies alike. That newfound freedom quickly lost its appeal, and Evelyn found herself flung back against Cullen’s body, elated to be wrapped in his arms once more. Clumsy kisses and wandering touches attended the two on their short journey to the bedroom, a trail of puddles on the floor left behind as remnants of the steps taken. When Evelyn felt the mattress behind her, she pulled Cullen down along with her, on top of her. It took a bit more frantic bumbling around on the sheets until they managed to get into position – face to face, her hands on his sides, one half of his body propped up on his forearms and the other nestled between her spread thighs, water drops gathering on the bed.

But there was a calm as their eyes met in the near-darkness, shyly turning aside before being drawn to each other again. The room was quiet, save for Evelyn’s heart beating in her ears, Cullen’s even but audible breathing, and the unsteady crackling of the fireplace. The excitement that had led them rushing to their bed had not diminished once they were in it, not exactly, but had changed, had become the warm stillness of two people uncertain of what they were doing, but certain entirely of who they were with. Cullen’s thumb grazed her cheek, pushing her hair away and onto the pillow beneath her, making her chest flutter at his innocent action, one that she’d become so used to in their time together.

“You’re smiling,” Cullen said, smiling himself as he did. It softened his face in such a remarkable a way that Evelyn knew only she, out of everyone in all of existence, was privy to – making it even more of a wonderful sight.

“Well, that’s because I’m happy.”

He laughed softly, for her ears alone. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Evelyn’s heart thumped as she slid her hands to his back, running over muscles slick with bathwater, gently pressing him down against her. On that speechless but clear signal, Cullen supported his body a little less, bringing himself closer to her still, until they were nearly chest against chest, his erection temptingly held between her legs.

“Go slow?”

Cullen nodded. “I will.” With that, he laid a tender kiss on her brow that reassured her just as much as his words did. “You’re ready?”

Evelyn nodded back, the breath she needed for speech leaving her at that moment.

There was some bumping around, a little shifting around, a bit more awkward bumping around, a couple insistent apologies and a couple more insistent reassurances and attempts at helpful wriggling, and one last off-target attempt before Cullen reached one arm down to his hips, and guided himself by the hand into her slit, sliding in gradually, and mostly steadily, with neither much fuss nor fanfare. Even so, the newly despoiled Evelyn was absolutely stunned. It felt somewhat uncomfortable, and weird in a way that she couldn’t describe in any meaningful way, but painful? Not in the least.

“Does… does that feel okay?” Cullen asked, keeping himself motionless inside of her while he awaited a reply. Evelyn soon gave him one.

“That’s _it?_ ” she blurted out, incredulous. “That’s _all_?”

Her outburst left Cullen with a raised brow, a slight frown, and a throat in dire need of clearing, something she noticed with more than her ears. The sheer bizarreness of feeling his cough reverberate inside of her nearly make her burst out in laughter, but she fortunately realized how bad that would have been at roughly the same instant that she realized just what she had said – and, more importantly, what Cullen had _heard_.

“Oh, Maker, no, no-no-no, that’s not what I meant. No, see, I thought there was going to be at least a _little_ pain, o-or maybe something just manageable, not _none_. That wasn’t about your, ah– you’re fine, seems just fine!”

Evelyn was infinitely grateful that her hands were out of his sight, because she impulsively ended her commentary with a thumbs up that she would’ve never been able to take back. She sheepishly and swiftly returned the offending hand to where it had been.

“So…” Cullen began tentatively. “This does not hurt?”

She only shook her head, deliberately trying to keep another word waterfall from gushing out. Following that silence, Cullen sighed so deeply that Evelyn could feel tension melt away from his muscles.

“That’s such a relief.”

“You were that worried about me?”

“Of course. It’s _you_.”

It was sweet, so much like the man she’d come to know to fret over her like this. It just wasn’t until she heard and felt that exhale that she knew just how much he worried.

“Try not to worry _too_ much,” said Evelyn, willing (and obviously failing) to keep her face from getting any redder. “I want you to enjoy yourself, you know.”

“I’ll _try_ not to.” Cullen paused. “Worry, I mean, not enjoy myself. That is, ah, I _will_ try to enjoy, no, I’m actually already kind of…”

Evelyn knew it was impossible to make him stop worrying entirely, just the same as it was for her. Maybe there were other ways to soothe him, like, peculiarly enough, to excite him instead. She couldn’t think of a better way at that moment to draw his mind from anxiety to desire than having him hear her say just the right words in just the right, warm voice. She gave him a peck on the lips, giving herself just a second to consider what would sound better to his ears – to take her or to make love to her. Freed from the kiss, she went with her gut.

“Take love to me, Cullen.”

Apparently her gut needed more than a second to be of any use to her. Thankfully, Cullen either took his pick of what she could have meant to say, got the gist of it from the tone of her voice, or spared her from further embarrassment by not bringing it up at all. In any case, his lips were almost immediately back on hers, and he began to heed her garbled plea.

His first thrusts were slow, perhaps too slow to even be deemed “thrusts” at all, but fulfilled exactly as promised, and still without even a hint of the pain Evelyn had dreaded. Even at such a pace, there was a marked unsteadiness in his movements, an uncertainty in how he should hold himself above her, repeated adjustments that halted the action entirely. Even so, her anticipation grew – each time she took him to the hilt, she welcomed that previously unknown fullness more, each time leading to a hint more pleasure, a sweet shiver more intensely felt, a need for more.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“More than okay.”

“Would anything make it better for you?”

Evelyn bit her lip, trying to actually think of an answer instead of just basking in the sound of his voice. She had a hunch, excavated from a half-clear memory of something she had read.

“Um, stay still for a moment?”

Cullen did. Evelyn wrapped her legs around his torso, crossing her ankles at the base of his spine, locking her still-wet thighs against his still-wet sides. She beckoned him to continue, and he thrusted back into her. She gasped, in a way that neither of them had heard before.

Oh, praise to the Maker for that hunch.

But he _stopped_. He stopped to say, “What was—“

“Keep going,” she urged, grasping him more tightly with her arms and legs alike. “ _Please_.”

The difference that the angle made was extraordinary, almost preposterous. It steadied him, made each motion smoother, brought about a tempo that, with Evelyn’s blessing and to her vocal delight, quickly increased. There was more to this than she had anticipated, more than just a feverish union of the parts between their legs, so much more: the clean scent of the bath upon them both, mingled with fresh sweat; the sounds, from quiet and drawn-out to sudden and powerful; the rhythmic slap of skin against skin; the slight shifting of his shoulder blades beneath her palms; the weight of his body pressing hers into the mattress, strongly but not oppressively; her mind somehow both racing and blank in the same moment. In the midst of that haze of senses, Cullen swiftly slipped his arms behind her back, pulling her into a sudden hug and a near-stifling warmth.

“You feel so _good_ ,” he rasped, his words starved for air, his last, heavy syllable accompanied by him driving himself deeply into her. “Evelyn.” Oh, Maker have mercy, the way he called out for her. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

“It’s okay. We can do this again and again and aga—“

With a groan, Cullen held her so tightly that every ounce of air was forced out from her lungs. His hips were still, but still she felt him move, felt his cock throb and his warm seed pool within her. And all the while he moaned sounds rough and trembling alike directly into her ear, so she could feel the shudder of his breath as he came. At that moment she was certain – she had never felt a greater pleasure than feeling his own right then.

“Evelyn,” he huffed, his head collapsing on her pillow, his face half-buried, but still she could hear him say, “Maker, Evelyn.”

Evelyn gave him time to collect himself, absentmindedly running a hand through his tousled hair as their breathing returned to normal. Slowly, they both turned on their sides, still facing each other, still caught in each other’s arms. The movement made Cullen slip out from her sensitive and sore flesh, the latter she had not noticed until then, and gave little more notice to – the man at her side had too strong of a pull on her attention.

“Maker, that was…” Cullen sighed, unable to find the right word. Then he said, somewhat bashfully, “I… wish it hadn’t ended so soon.”

“Like I said, we’ll have many more chances.”

He chuckled softly, turning his gaze away from hers directly. “Again and again and again, was it?”

“And again and again and again.”

She pressed her hand to his cheek, encouraging his eyes forward. He looked at her.

“So I guess it wasn’t so, ah... H-How was it for you?” he asked, a tinge of both exhaustion and uncertainty in both his voice and his expression.

“You were perfect.”

“You’re being rather generous there, aren’t you?”

“No.” Evelyn shook her head. “It was you, so it was perfect.”

Cullen gave up the fight with a soft sigh, and maybe it was just one that he was too spent to persist in, but it still satisfied Evelyn for having won it. He rested his hand on top of the one she had against his cheek, warming it between his flushed face and palm.

“You know,” Evelyn began, not fully sure of her thoughts but knowing she had something she needed to say. “I was told that doing this would take everything away from me, make me less than whole… But that’s wrong. It feels more like… like I found a part of me that was missing.”

That was cheesy enough to provide enough fondue for an entire Orlesian soiree, but she didn’t regret saying it. It was completely true.

“I think I understand what you mean,” he told her with a warm smile, then took hold of her hand and kissed her palm.

She couldn’t resist drawing herself closer to feel those lips on her own. He obliged her completely, tangling his fingers into her hair as he deepened their kiss. A thought struck Evelyn as their mouths parted, and she tried – unsuccessfully – to stifle the giggle that it lured from her throat.

“What’s so funny?”

“Did you realize,” said Evelyn, a silly grin on her face, “that we’ve both saved ourselves for marriage?”

He gave the thought a moment, then smiled back, amused. “I suppose we did.”

Tired as they were, the night’s excitement kept sleep at bay. They spoke idly of idle things in each other’s tender grasp, enjoying the simple pleasure of the other’s company in the midnight silence. And, before a well-deserved night’s sleep could truly clutch them both from consciousness, Evelyn and Cullen put their supposed marriage bed to use once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They/I finally did it! And I've been waiting to use that line since chapter one woo.
> 
> Fun fact that probably nobody cares about! The majority of this chapter (and a good chunk of this fanfic in general) is drafted out in a notebook that I whip out during work breaks where I try to pretend like I'm not writing Dragon Age porn. I use that same notebook to keep track of when I have to go back to work and pretend that I wasn't just writing Dragon Age porn. Here's a picture of some of the pages that I wanted to share for some dumb reason?? http://imgur.com/a/XEuUO


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